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THE 








INLANDER 





The Inlander 

t 

BY 

/ 

HARRISON ROBERTSON 

H 

AUTHOR OF 

“ IF I WERE A MAN,” “ RED BLOOD AND BLUE,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


1901 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MAR. 20 1901 

Copyright entry 
CLASS #,XXc. N». 
COPY B. 



Copyright , igoi 

By Charles Scribner’s Sons 

All rights reserved 


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UNIVERSITY PRESS • JOHN WILSON 
AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 


CONTENTS 


I. First Flight of a “Squab” . . . 

II. “When Good Fellows get Together” 

III. Paul Rodman goes into Business 

IV. The Bloom from the Blur . . . . 

V. A Spoiled Pen instead of a Broken 

Neck 

VI. A Rapid Walk and a Closed Gate . 

VII. The House in the Highlands . . . 

VIII. The House on Gray Street . . . 

IX. “The Brand of a Burnt-out Star” . 

X. A Suggestion for a Play . . . . 

XI. Across the Years 

XII. Division Valley 

XIII. “Done Come Home” 

XIV. The Story of a Blue-Eyed Crow . 

XV. Manager Joyce disturbs a Summer 

Holiday 

XVI. The Whippoorwill 


PAGE 

I 

18 

33 

46 

55 

63 

69 

79 
98 
102 
112 
123 
139 
1 56 

164 

176 


VI 


Contents 


PAGE 

XVII. Collapse of a Philosophy ... 182 

XVIII. A Slump in Fluor-spar . . . . 191 

XIX. Avice 199 

XX. Madge 216 

XXI. Fletcher Keith develops a Taste 

for Chopin 229 

XXII. The Signal 235 

XXIII. Merely to kill a Man or be 

KILLED 248 

XXIV. Among the Buckwalters . . . 257 
XXV. An Arrival at Twin Mountain . 272 

XXVI. Under the Crags 275 

XXVII. Barney Carruthers has his Say 284 
XXVIII. Dr. Ward loses a Patient . . . 298 

XXIX. A Race Southward 304 

XXX. “No Longer a Dream” 310 


The Inlander 












* 






































I 






The Inlander 


i 

FIRST FLIGHT OF A “ SQUAB ” 

“ It was just like you, Polly ! ” was the grinning 
comment of Barney Carruthers afterwards, as 
Paul Rodman told him of the Glorious Girl on 
the train. “ I could have sworn that when you 
started out in the world you would n’t have 
gone twenty miles before putting on your 
funeral face and holding your breath in long- 
distance worship of some bolt of calico.” 

Barney Carruthers sometimes called him 
Paul and sometimes Rod; it was only when 
Paul was discussing Girls, and Woman, and 
Womanhood that Barney addressed him as 
Polly, — - which, after all, was not a remote 
diminutive of Paul, considering Barney’s pro- 
pensity to carom over his diphthongs. 

But Barney was wide of the mark in one 
respect. Paul had gone twenty miles before 
he put on his funeral face and held his breath 
at sight of the Glorious Girl. She did not get 


2 


The Inlander 


on the train until it was pulling out from Nash- 
ville, and Paul had travelled more than forty 
miles before he reached Nashville. 

He was twenty-two, and he was literally, as 
Barney Carruthers expressed it, starting out in 
the world. The death of his father, Judge 
Sevier Rodman, a year before, had left Paul 
the last of an old family. He had tried run- 
ning the farm one season, but he longed to 
be where the tide of life was strong, and the 
pastoral country around the inland town of 
Mavistoc, in Middle Tennessee, which had 
thus far limited his horizon, beautiful as it 
was and much as he loved it, could not sat- 
isfy that longing. 

While his father lived Paul had not been 
impatient to leave the old homestead. The 
disparity in their ages did not prevent the 
closest companionship between the scholarly 
recluse and his young son, who were the sole 
white members of the household. The boy 
entered with zest into the pursuits and studies 
of the man. They passed the days together, 
with guns or fishing-rods; the evenings they 
usually shared, sitting on the veranda in sum- 
mer and around the library table in winter. 
The education of his son was the chief employ- 


First Flight of a “Squab” 


3 


ment of Judge Rodman’s later years; and it 
was an education which, with the relaxation 
the two took together, left neither with more 
idle time than it was meet should fall to those 
whose lots were cast on this benign soil and in 
this gentle climate. Moreover, it was an edu- 
cation, Paul subsequently found, which he had 
no reason to be ashamed of in any circle of 
college men. 

Having sold the farm, after reserving the 
books, the piano, and a few of the pictures for 
himself, young Rodman, with $3,700 to his 
credit, with a sound body and a clean heart, had 
taken the northbound train this morning, on a 
journey that was to bear him to what he would 
have called, in the language of his books, “ the 
battlefield of life.” 

It was such a journey as none ever knows 
but once. Insulated as Paul had always been ; 
sanguine and imaginative; feeding his imagi- 
nation on his seclusion and on a library stored 
with the poetry and romance of the past; full 
of dreams which were now to find their fruition, 
— he was at last thundering on his way to 
the outer world and the new existence. There 
was an exhilaration in the rattle of the wheels 
and the throb of the engine that told him his 


4 


The Inlander 


beginning had actually begun. The glistening 
rails did not reel out behind him as swiftly as 
he was leaving the old life. 

His eyes were constantly out of the car 
window. Every scene along the road had a 
vivid interest for him, — the little way -stations, 
the straggling spectators, a town, a river, the 
tree-grown forts, and the well-kept cemetery 
that told of the great battle fought before he 
was born; then Nashville, and the Girl! 

She came into the car as if she had just 
stepped out of one of Paul’s books, and the 
porter gave her a chair not very far in front of 
Paul’s, in which she settled herself, with her 
bags and bundles finally stowed to her satisfac- 
tion. Then she lifted one exquisite hand to 
her collar, and again to the coil of her hair, 
sweeping the car with a serene, surveying 
glance, during which Paul caught the color of 
her eyes ; whereupon his “ funeral face ” came 
to him, and he sat very still, and looked 
through the window no more. 

Paul knew little about women, though he 
thought he knew everything about them. Cer- 
tainly he had his own ideas about Woman; 
and they were ideas which that fine old South- 
ern gentleman, Judge Sevier Rodman, would 


First Flight of a “Squab” 


5 


have heartily approved as part of the capital 
of his son as the boy went forth to make his 
place as a man. 

Those ideas of Paul’s were deeply rooted, if 
not very definite, at an early age. He had 
contemplated the sex with wonder and awe, 
merging into admiration and reverence. From 
whatever sources his boyhood’s impressions 
had been derived, however, it was not from 
intimate association with women themselves. 
His mother had died within six months after 
his birth; he had no sisters; and he never 
thought of his old black nurse as a woman, 
any more than he thought of her as a butterfly. 
She was simply his “ mammy,” as far removed 
in kind and degree from the beautiful beings 
he knew as “ ladies ” as they were removed 
from all other created things. Indeed, ladies, 
as he conceived them, belonged to a world 
altogether different from the little one in which 
he lived. It would have been a strange wonder- 
tale to the child if he had been told that 
woman is only a sort of man, — or, if pre- 
ferred, that man is only a sort of woman. 
And when the revelation did burst upon him 
that “ ladies ” have two legs, “ just like men,” his 
mental organism underwent some such wrench- 


6 


The Inlander 


ing and rearrangement as accompanied the 
ignoble transition of Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. 

Up to that time a suspicion of the fact that 
so supernal a creature as a lady was hampered 
by the material necessity of walking with legs, 
like common men, had never entered his brain. 
The flowing folds of a woman’s draperies had 
always been to him as essentially a part of 
herself as the white robes and feathered wings 
of the celestial pictures in the family Bible were 
parts of the angels themselves. If before he 
had eaten of the tree of knowledge he had been 
informed that ladies propel themselves, like 
men, by poking one prong of themselves out 
before the other prong of themselves, he would 
have been as incredulous as the lover of the 
thoroughbred is when first asked to believe 
that the grotesquely awkward movements 
caught by instantaneous photography repre- 
sent the running action of that graceful animal. 
Women in motion no more suggested to young 
Rodman the act of walking than did the float- 
ing of a swan or the flight of a swallow. 

And so when his father took him to the 
circus one day, and something called “ Mile. 
Caromba,” clad in conspicuously scant gauze, 
toddled out into the ring and jumped upon 


First Flight of a “ Squab ” 


7 


the bare back of a spotted horse, and when 
his father, in response to his inquiries, told 
him that it was a woman, and finally con- 
vinced him that it did not belong to the me- 
nagerie, and had not been captured in some 
strange land along with the camels and the 
kangaroos, but was exactly like other women, 
except in the merely artificial adjunct of rai- 
ment, the lad learned the first of those les- 
sons that make him the subject of this bit of 
biography. 

The girl in the car sat with her back turned 
to Paul, and he had to content himself with a 
view of the graceful contour of one shoulder 
and cheek. She was reading a book, and after 
the one glance she had given her fellow-pas- 
sengers she seemed oblivious of their exist- 
ence. Paul’s desire for a better look at her 
grew stronger the more it was denied, and he 
was seriously debating whether he could, with- 
out attracting her notice, change his seat to 
one of the revolving chairs in front of her, 
when she closed the book and swinging her 
own chair partially around, fixed her eyes con- 
templatively on the scenery through the win- 
dows across the aisle. Paul now had his 
opportunity, and he studied her face intently, 


8 


The Inlander 


furtively, as if he feared the very act of his 
breathing might betray to her his unmannerly 
scrutiny. 

It was a lovely face, delicate in color and 
features, with the delicacy of fineness rather 
than of weakness. It had a light of its own, 
independent of the light of the wonderful eyes ; 
a face subtly magnetic and bespeaking a gen- 
tle, pure-hearted, and warm-hearted woman. 

At least, such was Paul Rodman’s verdict; 
and who better qualified than Paul, in his 
youth and inexperience, to recognize a true 
woman on sight ? The dreams of all his life 
had centred around such a face ; and now, at 
last, after waiting twenty-two long years, he 
had found it ! 

He continued to gaze at her until, after a 
few minutes, she turned her head slightly and 
caught him in the act. His eyes fell precipi- 
tately, and he knew that his face was instantly 
aflame. He felt like a convicted culprit. She 
was too well bred to display any irritation, but 
what would she think of so bold and rude a 
stare? What could such a woman think? 

Nevertheless he was glowing with the con- 
sciousness that he had seen her eyes again, — 
deep and tender eyes (what was there that he 


First Flight of a “Squab” 


9 


did not know about such eyes ?) which confirmed 
a hundredfold all that her face betokened. 
That consciousness overwhelmed even his sense 
of guilt. He must see those eyes again, — cau- 
tiously, respectfully, — but he must see them. 

Glancing, after a little, toward her once 
more, it was with a quickening of his pulse 
that he saw they were levelled upon himself. 
She withdrew them, but hardly before he too 
had turned away. When next he stealthily 
looked at her she was engrossed in her book. 
Of course his insolence had offended her ! 
The thought stirred in him a tumult of com- 
punction and self-contempt, and it was fully 
five minutes before he allowed his eyes to 
venture in forbidden territory again. 

She was still occupied with the book ; but 
it was not long before a swift glance came to 
him over the top of it, when, closing the vol- 
ume, she turned with a faint sigh to the win- 
dow and drummed listlessly on the glass. 

That settled it. She was offended by his 
persistent ogling ; whereupon he sank again 
to lower depths of abasement. But he did 
not discontinue his transgression. He could 
at least look at her openly, now that her back 
was toward him. 


IO 


The Inlander 


Presently, as if moved by a sudden caprice, 
she began fumbling at the window, with the 
evident purpose of raising it. But perhaps 
she did not understand the catch ; something 
seemed to resist her efforts. 

“ I ought to offer my assistance,” thought 
Mr. Paul Rodman. “If I had not already 
provoked her ! But a gentleman can’t stand 
back at such a time. I ’ll lift the window for 
her and then I ’ll go into the smoker, and I ’ll 
be hanged if I annoy her with another look 
while she remains on the — oh, thunder ! ” 

A benevolent-faced old gentleman, sitting 
behind Paul, had walked over and raised the 
refractory sash. He was rewarded with the 
sweetest of smiles and the sweetest of “ Thank 
you’s; ” and as he returned to his seat he cast 
a quizzical glance at Paul, who, however, did 
not understand it, if he saw it. The truth is, 
that young voyager into the outer world was 
now thoroughly dejected, and drawing his coat 
more closely around him, as if to commune 
with his adversity, as the Spartans communed 
with their secret foxes, he was about to con- 
tract into the gloomy depths of his chair, when 
his impulse was arrested with almost a jerk by 
the spectacle of a man with a dyed mustache 


First Flight of a “ Squab ” 1 1 

who projected himself suddenly into Paul’s 
field of vision. 

This man might have been any age from 
forty to sixty, and his figure was not yet too 
rotund to show that he had once been hand- 
some, though his face was now the well-marked 
battleground of the forces of vitality and de- 
cay. Between the deadness of his dyed mus- 
tache and dyed hair his eyes still burned with 
living fire, and though his complexion was 
the dull red whose dulness is accentuated 
by dyed hair, the upper part of his visage 
and head was symmetrical and even imposing. 
It was the deep lines that fell away on either 
side from the base of his nose that etched 
the jowls of swine. He was well dressed, 
except for the porcelain glaze on his linen 
and the flare of gaudy handkerchief from 
an outside breast-pocket of his coat. 

It was plain that he had moved from some 
other part of the car for a purpose, and the 
purpose soon was equally plain. The chair 
which he chose was directly in front of the 
girl, not ten feet away, and he swung it around 
to face her, staring at her with bold, and what 
was evidently intended to be ingratiating, ad- 
miration. Soon a smile glinted in his eyes, 


12 


The Inlander 


then twitched his mouth, and a little later the 
handkerchief was flirted from his pocket and 
passed significantly over his lips. 

Paul was inwardly seething. His fingers 
gripped to be at the fellow’s throat, and his 
teeth were clinched in the restraint he had 
forced upon himself. He glanced at the girl, 
but her back was toward him. He thought 
the cheek which he could see partially was 
flushed, and he inferred from her attitude that 
she was looking studiously out of the window. 

Just then the train slowed to a stop at a 
station, amid a clamorous din of “ Peaches ! 
peaches ! Here ’s your fresh soft peaches, six 
for a nickel ! ” It seemed to bring an inspira- 
tion to the man with the dyed mustache, who 
smiled broadly and hurried from the car, with 
a look on his face which proclaimed loudly 
that his next move would be a fruit-offering to 
the girl. 

Paul got up and sauntered to the door through 
which the man had disappeared. Stepping 
out to the platform of the car, he closed the 
door behind him and breathed the air of free- 
dom once more. The man he had followed 
was on the ground among the boys, who 
crowded around him, pressing on him their 


First Flight of a “ Squab ” 13 

bargains. In half a minute more the train 
started and the man was on the steps of the 
coach, with both hands full of peaches. 

Paul, standing with his back to the car door, 
quietly looking at him, made no motion to 
allow him to pass. 

“ Open the door for me, my young friend; 
you see I ’ve got all I can ’tend to.” 

The man, who was on a level with Paul now, 
spoke a little hurriedly and in a good-humored 
tone that took compliance for granted. 

It was a way of Paul’s that when he was in 
communication with one who had aroused his 
anger he smiled winningly — up to a certain 
point. He was smiling now as the man with 
the peaches halted before him. 

“ You have made a mistake,” Paul said 
gently; “your car must be further to the 
front.” 

“No, I ain’t made no mistake,” laughing 
shortly and impatiently; “what do you take 
me for, bubby? ” 

He started forward, as if to push by Paul, 
but Paul was not to be pushed aside. 

“ I am quite sure you have, sir; this car is 
intended for ladies and gentlemen.” 

The man’s eyebrows wrinkled nearer together 


i4 


The Inlander 


as he screwed his sharp gaze on Paul, and he 
dropped one of his peaches as he spoke. 

“ Say, you, what the devil are you drivin’ 
at? I ain’t got no time to stand out here and 
joke with you.” 

“ If you insist on an explanation,” Paul 
smiled, “ you may remember that there are 
some ladies in this car, and I have seen 
enough to know that your place is not with 
ladies.” 

The man’s face grew a deeper red and he 
opened his mouth to speak, but he seemed 
checked by astonishment. Then he broke 
into a harsh laugh, which he ended abruptly. 

“ Say, you young squab you,” he spoke with 
gruff directness, “what part of the world did 
you come from, and when did you fall out of 
your loft? Get out of my way; I’m done 
foolin’ with you.” 

He began in an excited haste to stuff the 
peaches in his pockets, and Paul, watching 
him, smiled and made no answer. 

“ My place not with ladies, hey? Huh ! 
ain’t you been out of your nest long enough 
to find out a man’s place is with any lady he 
damn pleases, if the lady don’t object?” 

Paul was not smiling now. He suddenly 


First Flight of a “ Squab ” 1 5 

reached up to the rope and signalled the train 
to stop. 

The man did not seem to suspect Paul’s 
purpose. “ You young softy ! ” he said, “ are 
you goin’ to get off and walk because you don’t 
like my society? ” 

He understood as the train slackened and 
Paul took him by the collar. 

The man, with a realizing oath, grappled 
Paul, but he was no match for this strong youth 
from the country. 

Paul quickly lifted him from the car and 
dumped him on the edge of the clay embank- 
ment, down which he rolled five or six feet, 
midst spluttering profanity, a hat gone astray, 
and those peaches that were not mashed in his 
pockets frisking away in various directions to 
liberty. 

Paul, turning to the rope to start the train, 
was confronted by the agitated conductor. 

“What’s the matter? ” hurriedly asked that 
official. “ Who pulled that rope?” 

“ I did,” Paul answered. “ One of the pas- 
sengers had to get off.” 

“ What are you talking about? What is the 
trouble?” demanded the conductor. 

The man below had got to his feet and 


The Inlander 


16 

scrambled upthe embankment, divided between 
his desires to express his indignation and to 
brush some of the traces of yellow clay and 
crushed peaches from his clothes. He glared 
at Paul and shook his fist at him, but he spoke 
to the conductor. 

“You! here, you ! ” he panted, “ I ’ll make 
this cost your road a hundred thousand ! 
What are you here for, anyhow? Are you 
runnin’ a railroad train or a lunatic asylum? 
I'll — I'll — ” 

There was a peroration of profanity which it 
is not worth while to record, but he took the 
hand of the conductor and was helped up the 
car steps, still glaring at Paul. 

“ I want to see you about this, young man,” 
the conductor said roughly to Paul ; “ this is 
bad business, stopping a train,” as he pulled 
the rope overhead. 

“ All right, sir ; I am at your service,” Paul 
replied. “ But I promise not to repeat the 
offence. If it becomes necessary to help a 
passenger off again, I ’ll try to do it without 
stopping the train.” 

He was standing with his back to the closed 
door of the chair-car, and was smiling again 
at the man with the dyed mustache. That 


First Flight of a “ Squab ” 17 

individual seemed to have no further desire to 
re-enter the car, and Paul’s threat was super- 
fluous. The plight of the gallant’s habili- 
ments was not such as became a lady’s man, 
and was sufficient in itself to preclude his 
return to the field of his proposed conquest. 
He indicated as much by a disgusted glance at 
his clothes, and then, swearing his intention to 
make it hot for the lunatic and the railroad, 
disappeared into the car ahead. 

After Paul, with some difficulty, had pacified 
the conductor, he went back to his seat in the 
chair-car. The girl was deep in her book, and 
there was no evidence that any of his half- 
dozen fellow-passengers suspected his part in 
stopping the train a few minutes before. He 
was particular to note that one sitting any- 
where near the girl could not have seen him 
as he helped from the train the man with the 
dyed mustache. 

It was not long now till Louisville, Paul’s 
destination, would be reached, and he spent 
the intervening time dreaming fine things, of 
which the Glorious Girl was the heroine and 
Paul Rodman the hero, sometimes unknown 
and usually unappreciated, but perhaps the 
more pensively happy for that. 


II 


“WHEN GOOD FELLOWS GET TOGETHER” 

Paul Rodman had now been in Louisville 
nearly three months. When he left his boy- 
hood’s home and went forth into the world, 
he had chosen Louisville as that part of it in 
which to cast his lot simply because Barney 
Carruthers lived there. The two were bound 
by that friendship which begins only in early 
youth and ends only in death, and which, 
however many other comrades either party 
to it may have, admits no third to its inmost 
chamber. 

Barney Carruthers was three or four years 
Paul’s senior, and was as different from him in 
temperament as it is possible for one chum to 
be from another. Big-boned and loose-jointed, 
he looked, he said himself, as if he had “just 
been pitchforked together.” His face was 
broad and only thinly covered by a beard that 
he called “ brindle giggies,” and that fortu- 
nately refused to grow more than an inch or 


When Good Fellows get Together 19 

two ; his cheek-bones were high, his com- 
plexion a freckled tan, his eyes bright and 
merry, his mouth wide, and usually at its 
widest in a laugh, — and where others would 
only smile Barney Carruthers would laugh. 
He was ungainly and lazy, except “ in action,” 
which is to say, except in physical sport or 
fight. 

It was in a fight that the friendship between 
him and Paul Rodman began. 

Paul was about twelve years old when, one 
day as he sat waiting alone in his father’s 
buggy, across the street from the Academy 
campus in Mavistoc, he was discovered by 
Barney Carruthers. Paul had never been 
allowed to go to school, and saw very little of 
other boys, who naturally regarded him with 
disapproval. Barney Carruthers, having shin- 
nied the ball past the goal, saw Paul in the 
buggy, watching the game with that solemn 
countenance which he usually assumed when 
intensely interested. 

“Nanny-boy! Nanny-boy!” Barney sang 
out. “ Ba-a ! Run here, fellers, an’ see if 
you can ketch it under your hat ! ” 

A dozen of the scamps answered Barney’s 
call, and next they were sitting a-row on the 


20 


The Inlander 


fence, keeping time with their heels and chant- 
ing over and over, under Barney’s leader- 
ship, the shrill sing-song which Barney had 
“ made up ” : — 

“ Nanny-boy ! Nanny-boy ! ’rah ! ’rah ! ’rah ! 

Nanny-boy ! Nanny-boy ! where ’s its pa ! ” 

Pretty soon the solemn-faced Paul began to 
smile winningly; and then he got out of the 
buggy and tied the horse to the hitching-post ; 
whereupon Barney wound up the last line of 
his couplet with a crescendo “ It ’s goin’ to its 
pa!” 

But Paul was not going anywhere. He took 
off his coat and threw it into the buggy, then 
stepping forward into the street and looking 
straight at Barney Carruthers, struck into the 
chorus with the mortal insult : — 

“ School-butter ! school-butter ! ” 

The fence was cleared as if by a flock of 
startled blackbirds. 

“ Who-wow ! ” yelled Barney Carruthers. 
“ Let him alone, you fellers ! He said it to 
me ! I found him ! He ’s mine ! ” 

They obeyed their leader. There was not a 
boy among them who did not know that to 
disobey would mean a personal settlement with 


When Good Fellows get Together 21 

Barney; and the best of them had had their 
settlements with Barney that settled. 

They were in a ring around Paul, and Bar- 
ney’s coat was now on the ground. He 
stooped over and slapped his hands in the 
dust, and then the two went at each other. It 
was fist and skull, foot and knee, no parrying 
or side-stepping, and every blow telling. 
Paul was the smaller, but he held his own so 
well that soon whenever he scored a point he 
was cheered as lustily as was Barney. For 
fully ten minutes it was give and take, up and 
down, first one on top and then the other, until 
labored breathing was about all that either was 
equal to. Finally, linked in a weak embrace, 
the pair reeled against the fence, and as from 
sheer necessity they rested for a moment, their 
eyes met and lingered inquiringly. 

“Why don’t you say ’nough, you little 
galoot?” panted Barney Carruthers. 

“ I won’t unless you will, too ! ” was Paul 
Rodman’s ultimatum. 

“ ’Nough ! ” agreed Barney Carruthers. 

“ ’Nough ! ” confirmed Paul Rodman. 

After that nobody called Paul “ Nanny-boy ” 
again, and it was not long before he and Bar- 
ney were such friends that Barney, owing to 


22 


The Inlander 


the frequency with which he played hookey 
in order to be with Paul, was expelled from 
school; which resulted in the royal arrange- 
ment for the boys whereby Barney shared with 
Paul Judge Rodman’s tutorship. 

This intimacy between the two lads was unin- 
terrupted until Barney grew up and went away 
to a Louisville law-school, returning to his 
country home in Tennessee only for his vaca- 
tions, when he regaled the deeply interested 
Paul by the hour with narratives of his expe- 
riences as a man of the world, being especially 
impressive in his description of the taste of 
beer the first time he had “ swallowed a dose 
of the mixture of tan-bark tea and axle-grease.” 
Notwithstanding the beer, however, Barney on 
the completion of the law course decided to 
remain in Louisville to practise his profession, 
and there he was at least remaining when Paul 
Rodman joined him. 

The two young men occupied a flat in the 
same building in which Drewdie Poteet had 
his studio. Drewdie Poteet — who signed him- 
self Templeton Drew Poteet, but who was 
called by everybody Drewdie Poteet — was the 
son of a wealthy widow who made him such a 
liberal allowance that there was no necessity 


When Good Fellows get Together 23 

for his having a studio, but for the fact that 
Drewdie believed that all men had Vocations 
in Life. The truth is, that Drewdie had, at 
various times, conceived that he had as many 
Vocations in Life. First he had been sure that 
his Vocation was to be a great tenor singer. 
Happily for the neighbors he had soon become 
convinced of his mistake. Then it had been 
revealed to him that his Vocation was to be a 
Napoleon of finance, and he had gone to 
Chicago to enter upon his empire, only to be 
taken in hand by some incredulous people in the 
neighborhood of the wheat pit and again shown 
his costly error. After that he had known his 
Vocation was to be a great sculptor; and 
when Paul Rodman made his acquaintance as 
a friend of Barney Carruthers, Drewdie was 
certain his Vocation was to be a great marine 
painter, being the more certain of this be- 
cause, except for an occasional summer jaunt 
to New York or Atlantic City, he never saw 
the sea. 

Drewdie Poteet was Barney Carruthers’ 
most intimate friend in Louisville until Paul 
Rodman arrived. It made no difference to 
Drewdie how much Barney laughed at him 
and blackguarded him, and it made no differ- 


24 


The Inlander 


ence to Barney how much Drewdie lectured 
him on his neglected obligations to the tailors 
and haberdashers. The two got on together 
perfectly, notwithstanding their dissimilarity 
and Drewdie’s grievances against Barney that 
he would not go into society, and that his 
inveterate habit of sitting on his spine, with 
a pipe in his mouth, utterly frustrated Drew- 
die’s desire to paint him as Farragut Lashed 
to the Shrouds' When Paul Rodman came, 
their admiration of him was another bond 
between Drewdie and Barney. A new ac- 
quaintance was never long in liking or dis- 
liking Paul, and Drewdie surrendered at once 
to the young Tennessean’s unsophisticated 
enthusiasm, old-fashioned manners, and un- 
conscious assumption of leadership. Barney 
laughed at Paul as freely as he laughed at 
Drewdie, but it was easy to see that behind 
his laughter was the greatest respect as well 
as affection for this hale, fresh-cheeked lad, 
and if Drewdie had not yielded so readily 
to Paul’s own influence it is likely that he 
would almost as readily have given his al- 
legiance to Paul through the mere force of 
Barney’s example. 

One of the first things that tended to es- 


When Good Fellows get Together 25 

tablish Drewdie and Paul on this footing was 
the latter’s amenability to Drewdie’s efforts 
to extend the art of good dressing. At his 
country home Paul had been considered some- 
what fastidious as to his personal appearance, 
but on reaching Louisville he had been quick 
to see that the cut of his hair, the length of 
his coat, and the width of his hat brim required 
some modification to adjust them to the stand- 
ards which prevailed among Drewdie Poteet’s 
associates. 

“ You pattern after Drewdie Poteet, Rod/ 
was one of Barney Carruthers’ injunctions. 
“ Drewdie is the best-dressed man you know, 
and I’m the worst; so you see my advice 
is disinterested. You’ve come here to make 
your jack, and I ’ve always heard that a good 
way to do that is to dress as if you ’d already 
made it. I’d try the scheme myself if I 
did n’t have anything else to do.” 

The three had some jolly times together 
those first months after Paul’s migration to 
town. In the mornings Barney Carruthers 
assiduously cultivated the habit of going to 
his law office, but Drewdie Poteet came down 
to his studio about ten o’clock and lolled with 
the papers for an hour or two, when he took 


26 


The Inlander 


the air “ on the avenue ” with Paul. The 
three met at lunch, and again at the tail of 
the afternoon, when they went for long walks 
in the suburbs, and with such regularity that 
in certain portions of the city they became as 
well known as the “old rags” man, and so 
friendly with the young barbarians on the com- 
mons that sometimes it was deemed judicious 
to change the route when Paul had neglected 
to stow in his pockets the expected candy or 
chewing gum. Then followed dinner, and in the 
evenings a trolley ride, a pull on the river, or 
loafing in the rooms of one of the two with 
Barney’s guitar, Paul’s piano, and Drewdie’s 
tenor ; and when Sunday came, knickerbockers 
and wheels and away over the Kentucky coun- 
try roads, or perhaps across the bridge and 
into the Indiana hills, among which they knew 
an old German who nursed a vineyard, made 
pure wine, and set a dinner good enough for 
Drewdie Poteet’s fastidious palate and cheap 
enough for the other two’s limited pockets. 

But all this time Paul Rodman had not dis- 
covered what he was to do in the world into 
which he had come to make his way. 

“You see, fellows, I’m not like Drewdie,” 
he explained. “If I were, I’d have known 


When Good Fellows get Together 27 

long ago what my vocation was, — maybe I ’d 
have known it two or three times by this. 
But I don’t. There are dozens of things I ’d 
just as soon do as dozens of others, and not 
one that I feel called on to do above every- 
thing else. I ’m sorry it ’s that way with me, 
Drewdie, but it is.” 

It was at Barney Carruthers’ suggestion that 
Paul had decided to try the newspaper busi- 
ness. “ I believe you ’d make a go at that,” 
Barney had said. “ You know your father 
was a great writer,” — it was well remembered 
in the Mavistoc neighborhood that Judge 
Sevier Rodman had contributed to ante-bel- 
lum “ Southern literature ” some ornate essays 
and rhythmic lyrics, through the columns of 
The Southern Literary Messenger , — “ and I 
don’t see why you should n’t have inherited 
his genius. I know Stagg, the city editor of 
the Globe y and I ’ll see if I can’t fix it for you, 
if you say.” 

Stagg agreed to give Paul a trial, and the 
result was thus reported to Barney and Drew- 
die by Paul himself : — 

“ I ’m not to be a great journalist, after all. 
Stagg and I unanimously agreed, in about 
two minutes, that you were mistaken, Barney. 


28 


The Inlander 


When I got to Stagg’s office I had to wait 
while he was sending some reporters to differ- 
ent parts of town for all sorts of things ; and 
when Stagg turned to me I felt I had the ad- 
vantage of those chaps, at any rate, for I had 
come with my piece already written up. You 
see, I wanted to take time to prepare some- 
thing carefully, and I had the whole thing 
composed and copied off before I left my 
room this morning. There it is now, if you ’d 
like to see it; for it won’t be in the Globe 
to-morrow.” 

Paul took from his pocket and threw on 
the table a folded manuscript, which Barney 
reached for, and, removing his pipe from his 
mouth, began reading aloud : — 

“‘SOME QUESTIONS OF THE AGE. 

“‘Does Business, the Moloch of our modern 
Ammonites, in addition to the tribute of man’s per- 
sonality which it exacts, demand the sacrifice of 
woman’s regnancy? Will it be satisfied with nothing 
short of the obliteration of all distinctions between 
the sexes? What man for the first time sees with- 
out a shock women commingling with men in the 
lobbies of our hotels? Who, without a callousing 
of his innate manhood, can look with indifference 


When Good Fellows get Together 29 

upon the women in the city, accorded little or none 
of the deference that is their due, as they are forced 
into the struggle for existence on a common plane 
with men in the trade marts, stores, and factories? 
What man whose ideas of woman enshrine her, as 
they should, as the sacred spirit of home, the one 
object of his protection and devotion, can look, 
without an impulse of rebellion, upon the pathetic 
faces of these women, contesting with men the 
feverish, stubborn fight for subsistence? And look- 
ing upon these faces, many of which seem to have 
lost that feminine fineness which is as subtle yet as 
positive as the fragrance of a flower, may he not 
recall the Scriptural story of the infliction of toil 
on the human race as a punishment for the first sin, 
and wonder if an argument in support of that story 
may be built on the theory that such punishment 
falls so much more heavily on woman than on man 
because hers was deemed the greater part in that 
sin? In truth — ’” 

“ Oh ! you need n’t read any more of it,” 
Paul interrupted; “it’s all like that.” 

Barney Carruthers folded up the paper and 
laughed one of those laughs which sank deep 
in his throat and stretched his big mouth to its 
limits. 

“ Polly ! Polly ! ” he exclaimed, “ you did n’t 
show that to Stagg, did you? ” 


30 The Inlander 

“ I did ! And he read it, — part of it, any- 
way.” 

Drewdie Poteet, who at first seemed in doubt 
how to take these confessions of Paul’s, dis- 
missed his doubts when Barney began to 
laugh, and Drewdie laughed too, in his little 
hacking way. 

“ And what did Stagg say, Paul?” Drewdie 
asked. 

“ He did n’t say much, but he looked lots. 
In fact he looked as if he wanted to do like 
Barney Carruthers, and swallow himself in a 
laugh. But he did n’t. He just gave me back 
the paper and said that some time he might 
get me to write a special article for the Sunday 
supplement, or woman’s page, or something, 
giving the first impressions of what he called 
an old-time Southerner from the interior — I 
reckon he meant a country jake from Tennes- 
see — on the modern metropolitan woman; 
but for the present I was to make a beginning 
on the Globe , and that was not the way to 
begin on the Globe!' 

“ I suppose he told you what was the way,” 
Drewdie commented. 

“ Oh ! very explicitly. He said he had 
saved a nice, easy assignment for me to begin 


When Good Fellows get Together 31 

with. I was simply to go out to Mrs. North- 
umberland’s, on Ormsby Avenue, and get her 
version of a rumor that she had intercepted 
her young daughter at the Jeffersonville Ferry 
one night last week in time to prevent an 
elopement with a pool-room sheet-writer. 
That was all.” 

“ It was easy enough, was n’t it? ” Drewdie 
asked. “ I ’ve understood Mrs. Northumber- 
land has a craze for getting into the papers.” 

“ Stagg said something of the same kind. 
But I told him he’d have to let me out; on 
second thought, I did n’t care to begin on the 
Globe. The fact is, fellows, before I ’d go 
about insulting ladies that way I ’d see the 
Globe in glory. I ’ll have to find another 
vocation, Drewdie.” 

“ Polly,” said Barney Carruthers, “ what was 
it that masher you chucked off the train called 
you, — a squab?” 

'‘He did, he did, Barney Carruthers! A 
squab, and not a journalist ! ” 

“ Well, he can prove you ’re not a journalist 
by Stagg,” said Drewdie Poteet. 

“ And he can prove you ’re a squab by me,” 
said Barney Carruthers, rising and going to the 
tobacco jar, “and what’s more, a squab that 


3 2 


The Inlander 


was hatched among the stars, I reckon, which 
will make it all the harder for you to learn to 
fly down in these parts. But, Polly,” he added, 
after refilling his pipe, “ there are oodles of 
things at large worse than a squab.” 

Whereupon he brought the palm of his hand 
down on Paul’s head, in affectionate benedic- 
tion, with a blow that crushed his hat over his 
eyes; and Paul in return knocked the pipe 
from Barney’s mouth into the hands of 
Drewdie Poteet, who demanded “ judgment” 
at short-stop. 


Ill 


PAUL RODMAN GOES INTO BUSINESS 

A FEW days later, as the three were starting on 
one of their afternoon walks to the outskirts of 
the city, Paul announced that he had made up 
his mind not to wait any longer, and actually 
had “ gone into business.” 

“ When?” 

“ What?” 

“ Where?” he was bombarded by Barney 
Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet. 

“ Come on, and I ’ll show you.” 

Paul stepped buoyantly along their favorite 
route to the southern suburbs, the other two 
by his side. They were familiar figures on 
these streets at this hour, — Paul Rodman, 
lithe-limbed, sure-motioned, with either ex- 
treme gravity or extreme brilliance conspicu- 
ous in his face, and the bloom of his country 
boyhood yet upon it; Drewdie Poteet, dap- 
per, immaculately clothed, marionette-gaited ; 
Barney Carruthers, his freckled, laughter- 
slashed visage broadening in the joy of the 
3 


34 


The Inlander 


open air and of good fellowship, and his lurch- 
ing sprawl the despair of his companions when 
they tried to keep step with him. 

As they walked on toward Churchill Downs 
this afternoon, the first golden leaves of the 
autumn maples under their feet and the golden 
mists of the autumn sun softening the purple 
ridge that walled the river, Drewdie and Barney 
were chaffing Paul concerning the nature of 
the business career he had entered upon, and 
Barney was varying this by humming, to an 
air of his own, — 

“ Polly and Barney and Drewdie Poteet — 

Oh ! haven’t you seen ’em parade out the street : 
Polly all eyes and Drewdie all sweet, 

And Barney Carruthers all mouth and feet ? ” 

It was some doggerel that had appeared not 
long before in The Runabout , a little sheet 
published Sundays, on the assumption that 
everybody likes to read something mean about 
everybody else. The publication of the rhymes 
had been followed by a visit of Barney Car- 
ruthers to the office of The Runabout , with the 
avowed purpose of taking off his coat and edit- 
ing the editor. 

“There won’t be any more of that sort of 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 35 

thing in The Runabout ,” Barney had reported 
to Drewdie Poteet, after the interview with the 
editor, — “ not if I know anything about human 
nature when I see it,” laughing at the memory 
about of what he had seen. 

“ Why, Barney,” Drewdie had replied, “ I 
did n’t suppose you were sensitive about — 
about those feet and things.” 

“Feet? Oh, go ’long! It was his freshness 
in the use of i Polly * that I cautioned him 
against. 1 Polly ’ is a little piece of personal 
property of my own, and I don’t intend to 
have anybody else infringing on it. Do you 
catch on, Drewdie Poteet? ” 

Drewdie understood. Not even he, as well 
as he knew the two, would have dared call 
Paul Rodman “ Polly ” in Barney Carruthers’ 
presence. 

Away out at what was then the end of Third 
Street, Paul stopped before a real estate agent’s 
“ For Sale ” sign stuck in a flat lot, half covered 
with water. 

“ Here it is, gentlemen,” he announced. 

“Here what is, mister?” said Barney Car- 
ruthers. 

“ My business,” answered Paul, with a happy 
smile. 


The Inlander 


3 6 

“ Going into the frog business?” asked 
Drewdie Poteet. 

“ Maybe you ’re thinking of contracting to 
supply Drewdie scenes for his marines,” guessed 
Barney Carruthers. 

“ The real estate business, gentlemen,” pro- 
claimed Paul ; “ this is my start.” 

“ Starting for China, through a hole in the 
ground?” persisted Barney. 

“ I bought it to-day,” explained Paul ; “ got 
it cheap, on account of the hole in the ground. 
Have n’t you all noticed how fast the city is 
building up in this direction?” 

“ Going to sit down on the banks and wait 
for the city to build up to you ? Is that what 
you call the real estate business, Rod ? ” 

Barney himself sat down and began throw- 
ing stones into the water. 

“ It ’s a beginning,” Paul answered. “ It 
won’t be long before there is a cosy little 
home — maybe a palatial one — where that 
puddle is now. Is there any finer business 
in the world than one that helps to make 
homes? ” 

“ Spoken like Polly, dealer in pollywogs. 
Heave-ho, there, Drewdie Poteet, and help 
me fill up the pond. We must lend a 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 37 

hand to Polly in his business of building 
homes.” 

Paul, however, sold his lot at a slight loss 
before a month had passed. 

It was the bicycles that led to this, and 
showed him the way to the business which he 
was to follow with some success and much 
delight. 

They were returning from a country run one 
evening, and struck the western edge of Louis- 
ville after dark. Barney’s tire had picked up 
a thorn, and all three stopped while he re- 
paired the puncture. As Paul waited, his 
curiosity was awakened by the unusual activity 
at the nearest of the few scattered cottages in 
the vicinity. Accurately speaking, it was hardly 
more than the frame of a cottage, which was 
evidently in course of construction. A little 
girl was holding a kerosene lamp, a man was 
sawing lumber, and a woman was driving nails 
into weatherboarding. Paul walked over to 
the place while Barney was fixing his tire and 
Drewdie was volunteering all sorts of advice 
how to do it. 

When Barney had finished and called to 
Paul, that young man returned with a note of 
excitement in his voice. 


The Inlander 


38 

“ What do you suppose they ’re doing over 
there?” he said. “It’s a family building a 
house. They are very poor, and they have 
never had a house of their own. The man’s 
name is Slade, and he gets a dollar a day at 
some sort of common labor, when he is able 
to work, — he is n’t in good health, — and they 
live on that and have saved up enough to be- 
gin a little house. At first they lived in a 
shanty-boat, which Slade built down on the 
river, but one day a member of the Boat Club 
came along and took such a fancy to it that 
he gave Slade $140 for it, and now uses it as 
a house-boat. The $140 went into that little 
dab of ground over there, and a shed was put 
up, which the family occupy until they can 
get a room or two of the house ready. They 
are building the house themselves. They buy 
the material, a little at a time, out of the sav- 
ings of $1 a day. The man saws the lumber 
and places the heavy timbers in position be- 
fore he starts for his job in the morning, and 
the woman does the lighter work with the 
hammer, as she can find time, during the day. 
After supper they work on it till bedtime, — • 
that ’s what they are doing now. They ’ve 
been all the spring and summer on it, and 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 39 

they he anxious to move in before winter. 
What 's bothering them most now is the roof. 
They ’ve set their hearts on a tin roof ; it will 
cost them $10, and they can’t possibly save 
up $10 before winter. I say, boys, it’s fine! 
it ’s beautiful ! Only it ’s an infernal shame 
that the woman should have to do it, and — 
anyway, we ’ve got to organize a pool, Barney 
Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet, to float that 
tin-roof scheme ! ” 

Barney began to twit Paul derisively, and 
Drewdie tried to make a pun about tin, but 
Paul had removed the lamp from his wheel 
and was off with it to the house-builders. 

“ What’s he up to now?” asked Drewdie 
Poteet. 

“ If I don’t believe the cuss is going to give 
them his bicycle lamp ! ” responded Barney 
Carruthers. 

“ Not on your life. Anything but that ! ” 

But it was that, notwithstanding the fact that 
Paul Rodman, after experimenting with many 
makes of lamps, had finally found one which, 
with some alterations of his own, he claimed 
to be the only bicycle lamp in the world, and 
which had come to be such a hobby with him 
that he was rated by his friends as a crank on 


4 ° 


The Inlander 


the subject. He had set it on a pile of lumber, 
and in the big disk of its brilliant light the 
skeleton of the house stood out clearly. 

“ That beats all the kerosene lamps in the 
West End, doesn’t she?” Paul exclaimed, as 
he returned and sprang on his wheel. 

“ And how do you expect to beat the 
police, riding back without her?” asked 
Barney Carruthers. 

“ I ’ll risk it, and run for it, if it comes to 
that,” was Paul’s reply, looking over his shoul- 
der at the illuminated scene of activity behind 
him. 

Next afternoon there was no walk by the trio. 

“We are to get an early dinner,” Paul de- 
murred; “then into our wheel togs. I’ve a 
new excursion on hand, — something better 
than anything we ’ve struck yet.” 

There was not much objection to this. 
There never was to Paul’s proposals. Ridicule 
him as Barney Carruthers might, and cavil as 
Drewdie Poteet did, Paul invariably had his 
way, for it invariably ended in their following 
his unconscious leadership. 

This evening he led them to the West End 
again, over the same route they had ridden 
the night before. 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 41 

“ Going to stop by Slade’s for that precious 
lamp of yours, Rod ? ” Barney Carruthers called 
out, as they neared the house-builders. 

“ Maybe he ’s going to leave them that tin 
roof,” Drewdie Poteet suggested. 

Paul did stop when they reached the place. 
“ Come on in here, boys,” he cried ; “ you 
would n’t like to miss what I ’ve got to show 
you.” 

The others, being on wheels, had to get off 
or leave Paul, and, as already intimated, they 
were not in the habit of leaving him. They 
did as he directed in this instance, and Paul, 
after a warm but quiet greeting by the little 
family, presented his friends. 

“ I ’ve brought you some hands,” he said 
to Slade. “ We ’re green, but we can learn; 
and between us we can certainly get the 
house finished before cold weather. Fall in, 
fellows.” 

He threw off his coat and took a plank out 
of the arms of the astonished Mrs. Slade. 

Barney Carruthers was dumb for five sec- 
onds. Then there was a vast chasm in his 
countenance and a mighty inrushing laugh. 
Jerking off his coat, and swinging it around 
his head, he dashed it forcibly on that 


42 The Inlander 

of Paul, and demanded to be shown what 
to do. 

Drewdie Poteet seemed lost in hesitation or 
amazement. He stood with his mouth half 
open, staring at everybody. Paul, swinging 
around the plank he held, struck Drewdie 
between the shoulder-blades and nearly swept 
him off his feet. 

“ Get to work there, Drewdie Poteet,” he 
laughed, “ or get out of the way of busy 
folks.” 

“ Be careful with Drewdie Poteet, Paul Rod- 
man ! ” sang out Barney Carruthers, who had 
seized a scantling. “He’ll come in strong 
when we go to put on the paint.” 

Thus it began, and thus it continued. Boss 
Rodman took his “ gang ” to work regularly. 
For the time the long walks and the long 
bicycle runs gave way to a different form of 
exercise. And one night in November, when 
the early darkness had settled down like the 
leaden sky itself, when the first spit of snow 
was in the air and the first aureoles radiated 
from the street-lights, the little house was com- 
pleted, even to the tin roof and the paint, the 
little family had moved in, and as Paul and 
Barney and Drewdie opened the new gate and 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 43 

went up the new brick walk, it was toward what 
Paul then and there proclaimed the cheeriest 
sight to be seen in the winter darkness, — win- 
dows glowing and blinking with firelight and 
lamplight within. 

Paul had insisted that the completion of 
their labors and the occupancy of the new 
house should be celebrated with “ a banquet,” 
and he had sent down the things, — oysters 
and birds, a turkey, ices, a bottle or two of the 
old Indiana German’s wine, — and when the 
family and the three friends gathered around 
the table it was under a tension of excitement 
that made it impossible for the little girl to sit 
still half a minute, and that even threatened 
the equipoise of Drewdie Poteet. Paul Rod- 
man and Barney Carruthers abandoned them- 
selves to unrestrained jollity, and the husband 
and wife, though always a little subdued, as if 
not yet accustomed to their changed circum- 
stances, seemed as happy in the good spirits 
of the rollicking boys as in their own good 
fortune. 

After a while Paul Rodman stood up and 
drank a toast in the old German’s wine. “ To 
the foundation of our civilization,” he said in 
his solemnest manner, “ the inspiration of all 


44 The Inlander 

our efforts, the haven of all our achievements, 
The Home.” 

Then, in response to the clamorous demands 
of Barney Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet, he 
went on and made a speech, all about The 
Home. And a beautiful speech it was, so 
everybody thought. Near the end of it Bar- 
ney and Drewdie became very still and grave, 
while Slade scraped his foot raspingly on the 
floor and gulped down a great deal of water. 
A strangely wistful look was on Mrs. Slade as 
she watched the speaker, and finally, as he tried 
to turn his head to hide from them a tear that 
suddenly started down his cheek, she covered 
her face with her hands; seeing which, the 
little girl, whose eyes had been growing bigger 
and bigger, broke into a heart-rending wail, 
and running around the table buried her sobs 
in her mother’s lap. 

Which ended Paul’s speech and brought 
back the laughter to the banqueters. 

A week later Paul had sold his Third Street 
lot for a hundred dollars less than he had paid 
for it, and had bought several lots in the West 
End, near the scene of his eloquent speech. 

“I’m going to have cottages built on them,” 
he explained to Barney Carruthers and Drew- 


Paul Rodman goes into Business 45 

die Poteet. “ Then I ’m going to sell them 
on easy terms to people who would probably 
never own homes of their own on any other 
plan. I think it can be made a paying busi- 
ness ; anyway, it ’s a good business.” 


IV 

THE BLOOM FROM THE BLUR 

The year that followed saw some changes 
in the affairs of the three friends. It brought 
Barney Carruthers’ books a few small fees, 
some of which he collected. It satisfied 
Drewdie Poteet that his Vocation in Life was 
not to paint, but to write, and he was al- 
ready devoting half an hour or so a day to 
the production of a story which should prove 
this to the world. It confirmed Paul Rod- 
man’s confidence in his plan of buying cheap 
lots and building on them ; for he had made a 
fair start during these first twelve months, 
considering his limited capital, which he suc- 
ceeded in increasing a little by long-time notes 
and liens. 

He had gone into a bank one day to borrow 
a small sum, before in his inexperience he 
knew that banks were not the places to nego- 
tiate loans on such security as he had to offer. 


The Bloom from the Blur 4 7 

He was referred to Mr. Oxnard, and on con- 
fronting that official was unprepared to find in 
him the man of the dyed mustache and the 
crushed peaches who had figured so promi- 
nently in Paul’s first journey to Louisville. 

Oxnard looked up and evidently recognized 
Paul instantly. His face mottled and his eyes 
shone, but he did not speak. 

Paul for a moment was clearly at a loss for 
his cue. He took a step backward, as if to 
beat an unexplained retreat, but he recovered 
himself and summoned a smile to his aid. 

“I — beg your pardon,” he said. “ I came 
on a little matter of business, but I see that I 
came to the wrong place.” 

Oxnard stood like stone, his eyes transfix- 
ing Paul and the perspiration slowly dampen- 
ing his seaming forehead. 

“ Quite evident,” he replied through his 
closed teeth. 

Paul did not linger. 

“ Who is this man Oxnard, in the Bear- 
grass Bank?” he asked Drewdie Poteet that 
night. 

“Judd Oxnard? Why, he is the Beargrass 
Bank. One of the self-made men of the town. 
Started as elevator boy down on Main Street 


48 The Inlander 

somewhere, and is now worth a quarter of a 
million.” 

“But has never found time to marry yet?” 
Paul asked. “Or is he a widower?” 

“ There ’s been a Mrs. Oxnard for about 
twenty years, I believe.” 

“ The scoundrel ! ” 

“ Been in business long enough to find that 
out?” 

“He’s the fellow I had to put off the train 
that day.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Drewdie Poteet, in a tone that 
indicated he had hoped for a more sensational 
disclosure. “ Oxnard has the reputation of 
being quite a ladies’ man, you know.” 

Paul had never again seen the girl who had 
been, without her knowledge, the heroine of 
his first adventure with Oxnard. He had seen 
her leave the train at Louisville, and afterwards 
he had looked for her face in the throngs on 
the streets and at the theatres. Later as, under 
the wing of Drewdie Poteet, he began going 
into society, he half expected to meet her at 
some of the balls and receptions. It was not 
until nearly two years after that day on the 
train that he found her again. 

It was at a “ dinner-dance.” Glancing across 


The Bloom from the Blur 49 

the two stretches of banked flowers and the 
two rows of guests seated at the great horse- 
shoe table, he saw her, facing him, on the 
other side of the room. He suspended a 
sentence which he had begun, and the girl he 
was talking to tentatively suggested a word 
which deflected his sentence to a very differ- 
ent idea from that toward which he had 
started it. 

“Yes, that is it exactly,” he stupidly re- 
sponded. “Don’t you agree with me?” 

“ Thoroughly. But you are the first person 
I have yet found that I could agree with on 
that point.” 

And she ever afterwards insisted that Paul 
Rodman was one of the few really clever men 
in town. 

A little later he said, — 

“ I thought I knew every one here ; who is 
the girl opposite, between Fletcher Keith and 
Tom Lusk? ” 

“ Haven’t you met her? It ’s Lucy Arnan. 
Been abroad for a year or two, and is just 
home.” 

When the dinner was over and the dancing 
began, he made his way toward Lucy Arnan 
at his first opportunity. But that was not 
4 


The Inlander 


5 ° 

before he had seen Fletcher Keith dance with 
her, surrender her to another partner, and 
almost immediately return to claim her again. 
Already, in his apprehension of the rare grace 
of her dancing — which seemed as much a part 
of his pulses as was the music itself — and of 
the elusive beauty of her face, blooming out 
from the blur of the ballroom like a lily in the 
dusk, was the pricking resentment against the 
presumption of Keith. 

The music had now ceased, and Keith 
was taking her into the hall and toward the 
stairway. Looking around for some one to 
serve his purpose, Paul ran into Drewdie 
Poteet. 

“ Present me to the girl with Fletcher 
Keith,” he said. “What is her name?” 

He had heard it half an hour before, but in 
the commotion which the sight of her had 
stirred within him he had forgotten it half a 
minute later. 

“Who? That? Oh,” Drewdie answered, 
with a mild smile, “that is Luce Arnan.” 

“ Who?” 

There was an emphasis in the word, which 
plainly implied surprise and protest, and which, 
could Drewdie have failed to note it, was 


The Bloom from the Blur 51 

doubly enforced by the almost fierce fixity of 
the eyes which Paul fastened on him. 

“ Luce — Miss Lucy Arnan,” Drewdie quali- 
fied, with a twitch at the corners of his mouth. 
“ Come along, then, old man, if you wish to 
meet her. But I don’t think she ’s the kind of 
girl you like.” 

“ I do wish to meet Miss Arnan,” Paul re- 
sponded a little stiffly. 

They started to the stairway, where Miss 
Arnan and Keith had found seats, Paul still 
smarting at the manner in which Drewdie 
Poteet had referred to the girl. 

As they stopped before Miss Arnan, Paul, 
for an acute moment, felt the qualm of a doubt 
as to his reception. Would she remember 
him? Would she recall against him the rude- 
ness and persistence of his staring at her on the 
train ? 

His suspense was quickly ended. As Drewdie 
spoke Paul’s name she looked up at him out of 
those blue, blue eyes with only a sweet gra- 
ciousness, and she gave him her gloved hand 
with a winning cordiality in its gentle pressure 
that thrilled his memory and his dreams for 
weeks. That high-bred, sensitive face, almost 
spiritually beautiful in the delicate play of 


52 


The Inlander 


expression and the exquisite fairness of the 
skin against the blue-blackness of her soft hair, 
surely bore no shadow of so vulgar a remi- 
niscence. Paul Rodman was profoundly thank- 
ful and profoundly happy. 

He was happy for months afterwards, in the 
presence or the thought of Lucy Arnan. 

It is not intended to say that before he met 
Lucy Arnan he had never been strongly 
attracted by other women. He was young, 
ardent, imaginative, and with his idealization 
of the sex had been more than once on the 
verge of “ falling in love.” The fact that, 
until he loved Lucy Arnan, he had never got 
beyond the verge, was perhaps due to that 
very idealization. As richly dowered mentally 
and physically as other girls were, none had 
ever fulfilled his requirements until Lucy Arnan 
came. And when she came he knew at 
once, in the blindness of his exaltation, that 
all his dreams and hopes of Woman were 
true ! 

He surrendered without reserve to the 
ecstasy of his passion. He could not have 
resisted it if he would. But he had no wish 
to resist it. It was the one supreme blessing 
which fate could bestow upon him ; now only 


The Bloom from the Blur 53 

had life really begun and was he worthy to 
live. 

When a young man with such notions as 
these concentrates them on something tangible 
like Lucy Arnan he does not dally in his woo- 
ing. Paul lost no time in laying his siege. 
His attentions were assiduous, and, while 
marked by the deference of a courtier, were 
thoroughly unaffected and fervidly direct. No 
woman would have misunderstood them, and 
none would have been wholly indifferent to 
them. 

He did not seriously doubt the result. His 
love had been intensified by the conviction 
that she had been attracted to him, as he had 
been to her, from the first. While Lucy Arnan 
never forgot that modest reserve which was so 
charming to Paul, there were certain delicate 
indications in her manner toward him, which 
only he could have detected, showing him 
plainly that he was not as other men to her. 
He chafed against the conventionality which 
forbade an immediate avowal, but he restrained 
himself resolutely, shrinking from any appear- 
ance of inconsideration or rashness which could 
have wounded in the least the most sensitive 
self-respect of a refined woman, or could have 


54 


The Inlander 


warranted the slightest suspicion of the sin- 
cerity and depth of his devotion. 

Meanwhile, it was an additional spur to him 
in his work to know that Lucy Arnan would 
bring him nothing but herself; that it was to 
be his part to provide for her comfort, as well 
as to enfold her with his love. And he would 
have thought he had been denied one happi- 
ness of a perfect marriage if it had been 
otherwise. 


V 


A SPOILED PEN INSTEAD OF A BROKEN 
NECK 

From the first Paul's choice had lacked the 
approval of Barney Carruthers and Drewdie 
Poteet, though neither had made any out- 
spoken demurrer in Paul’s presence. Barney, 
indeed, had no reason to demur, except that 
which he found in Drewdie’s objection; but 
that was sufficient for Barney. He was not 
acquainted with Miss Arnan, but Drewdie 
Poteet was; and as between Paul Rodman, 
who knew all about women theoretically, and 
Drewdie Poteet, who knew them only practi- 
cally, he deferred, on this subject, entirely to 
Drewdie. Barney was not a “ ladies’ man” 
himself : he was awkward and ill at ease in their 
company ; he honestly averred that he would 
rather do a day’s ploughing than “ dyke ” 
himself up for an evening call ; and Paul and 
Drewdie could never induce him to accom- 
pany them in their social diversions. He was 


The Inlander 


5 6 

ever ready, however, to encourage Paul to 
go out and “ cut a dash,” and found an untir- 
ing pleasure in listening to reports of the 
experiences of both Paul and Drewdie “ in 
society,” while his fund of amused, semi- 
cynical comment and counsel was exhaustless. 
But beneath all his good-natured raillery he 
was as keenly interested in the doings of his 
two chums in the gay world as if they were 
a pair of debutantes and he their mother. 

The one subject, however, on which Paul 
had nothing to say to either Barney or Drew- 
die was Lucy Arnan. Barney understood Paul 
well enough to realize that this was the most 
ominous indication of the true state of affairs. 
He knew that Paul held the object of his love 
too sacred for discussion even with his most 
intimate friend. Beyond this silence and the 
ever obvious evidence that Paul was living in 
the skies, Barney’s knowledge of the situation 
and his attitude to it were traceable wholly to 
Drewdie Poteet. Drewdie, while he had never 
dared in Paul’s presence to discourage his 
partiality for Lucy Arnan, was all the freer 
in expressing his disapproval to Barney 
Carruthers. 

“Oh! I can’t say that there’s anything 


A Spoiled Pen 57 

particular against her,” he would reply to 
Barney’s catechising, “ but she ’s certainly not 
one of those way-up girls that Rod thinks her 
— and does n’t come as near it, by a long 
sight, as lots of other girls he knows.” 

“ She has a pretty face, has n’t she? ” 

“ Yes. Everybody admits that.” 

“With sort of a quiet, er — superfine look?” 

“ Well, I suppose you might call it that.” 

“With eyes that are a little extra size, and 
soft, and what you might catalogue as the 
bottomless kind?” 

“ That seems to hit them off pretty well,” 
Drewdie laughed. 

“ She ’s slenderish and tallish, I reckon,” 
Barney went on ; “ rather slow-gaited and 

graceful ; dresses plainly, and always knows 
what to wear with her eyes and her hair.” 

“ You must have seen her. They say she 
won’t go to a dinner unless the 4 color scheme * 
suits her style of beauty.” 

“ I ’ve never seen her ; but I have a pretty 
clear notion what sort of a girl would set 
Polly’s ideal works going.” 

“ What ’s to be done about it? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Could n’t I — could n’t we tell him that 


The Inlander 


58 

they say she was sent off to boarding-school 
to keep her out of the way of the celebrated 
Fletcher Keith?” 

“ It would n’t do a bit of good. And, be- 
sides, Polly would be apt to get smiling-mad 
and break your neck for your trouble.” 

Barney Carruthers was too wise to believe 
that anything could be done to bring the lover 
to his senses except to trust to time. He 
enjoined upon Drewdie Poteet the virtue of 
ignoring Paul’s infatuation in Paul’s presence, 
and himself scrupulously refrained from mak- 
ing any reference to it, unless in an indirect 
manner. 

“ How ’s business? ” he might ask. 

“ Coming on pretty well,” Paul would answer. 

“So is Polly, ain’t he, Drewdie Poteet? 
You would n’t think that Polly was raised 
down in the country to be an old-fashioned 
Southern gentleman, suh? Here he is hold- 
ing his own with the professional hustlers, 
making the commons to blossom like a green 
bay-window and causing two houses to grow 
where but one blade of grass grew before. 
And the time will yet come — then you’ll 
remember me for a prophet, Drewdie Poteet 
— when Polly Rodman will also outgrow as 


A Spoiled Pen 59 

completely his old-fashioned Southern ideas 
about ‘the ladies, God bless ’em.’” 

Or Barney would close a novel and throw 
it away. “ Another escaped angel for a hero- 
ine,” he would scoff. “ I reckon you ’d like 
that book, Polly. Drewdie Poteet, don’t you 
go on making Polly Rodman the hero of that 
story you are writing. You wait till Polly has 
had a chance to finish his education by look- 
ing into a clothes-closet. No high-souled 
youth who has beautiful ideals about a girl 
angel is fully educated until he sees inside 
her clothes-closet.” 

On which occasions Paul would laugh much 
more heartily than Drewdie Poteet would, and 
with the generous complacence of one who 
alone understood what he laughed at, and how 
little, how less than little, Barney Carruthers 
knew about women. 

It was Drewdie Poteet’s failure to heed Bar- 
ney’s injunction of silence on the subject of 
Lucy Arnan that precipitated the climax of 
Paul’s wooing. 

Paul entered Barney’s room one warm even- 
ing in early summer. 

“Where’s Barney?” he asked Drewdie 
Poteet, who was lolling in the window. 


6o 


The Inlander 


“ Does n’t seem to have come in yet. Any- 
thing on hand? ” 

“No, only I thought it would be a good 
night to row up the river for a swim,” Paul 
suggested, seating himself on the edge of a 
table. 

“ Not going out among the girls to-night, 
then ? ” 

“No.” 

There was an interlude of silence during 
which Drewdie idly thumped his heel against 
the wall, and looked meditatively down on the 
street, while Paul slowly beat a tattoo on the 
table with a pen. 

When Drewdie again spoke, it was with his 
eyes still fixed on the street and with an occa- 
sional halt between his words, — 

“Having a — good time out on Gray Street, 
Rod?” 

“The best in the world,” Paul replied, with- 
out looking up. 

Drewdie waited, while he leaned out and 
intently inspected a mail-collector who drove 
up to the letter-box on the corner, took 
out its contents, and moved on in his cart 
again. 

“ Ever notice how much sense these mail- 


A Spoiled Pen 61 

cart horses have? I — thought you’d catch 
on there. She ’s — she ’s just the girl to have 
a good time with.” 

Paul looked up suddenly, and spoke a little 
more rapidly than was his custom. 

“ Here, Drewdie, what are you driving at? ” 
he asked. 

Drewdie gave one final kick upon the wall 
before he answered, — 

“ Oh, nothing — in particular. Only, you 
know, if — well, I Ve been in Louisville lots 
longer than you, Rod, and if — if I were going 
to tie on to a girl for good, Luce Arnan would 
hardly be just the kind of a — ” 

“ Never mind, Drewdie.” Paul’s tattoo ab- 
ruptly ceased; he was sitting erect, and he 
was speaking in a voice which, though no 
higher than usual, was new to Drewdie, who 
felt that it was to be heeded. “As you are 
not going to tie on to a girl for good, we won’t 
discuss the subject further.” 

He went to another window and looked up 
and down the street. 

“ Barney is late,” he said. “ Well,” turning 
to leave, “ if you and he have any plan for to- 
night, better not wait for me. I may not be 
back for some time.” 


62 


The Inlander 


He walked away, and Drewdie called after 
him uncertainly, — 

“ It would be a good night for a swim, Rod.” 

“ Yes ; but we ought to have made an earlier 
start.” 

Paul was gone ; and Drewdie sat motionless 
in the window until Barney Carruthers returned 
and discovered a pen standing on end, stuck 
deep into the wood of the table. 

“How’d you do this, Drewdie Poteet? 
Must have driven it in with a sledge-ham- 
mer.” 

“ Rod did it,” Drewdie replied lugubriously. 

“ Rod ? ” 

“ He got what you call smiling-mad, and he 
shoved that pen into the table, I suppose in- 
stead of breaking my neck.” 


VI 


A RAPID WALK AND A CLOSED GATE 

Paul went down the stairs to the street with 
swift, vigorous steps. As he turned into Fourth 
Street and up Market a casual observer, whom 
Paul would not have seen three feet away, 
would have said that here was a young man 
hurrying on some mission which engrossed 
his mind to the exclusion of all else. But 
Paul was going nowhere, for no purpose, ex- 
cept to get away from Drewdie Poteet and 
all other human companionship. He wanted 
to be in the open air, where he could move 
and breathe and be alone, and he attained 
those objects none the less because he was 
walking through one of the most populous 
quarters of the city. His first sensation fol- 
lowing Drewdie’s flippant words had been one 
of shocked amazement, instantly merging into 
the resentment of a fierce wrath. It is doubt- 
ful if he would have been so profoundly stirred 
if some leering tongue had flouted the name of 


The Inlander 


64 

his mother, for his mother was an abstraction, 
not even a memory, while Lucy Arnan, in 
addition to representing the sex which he 
revered as an abstraction, was an individuality 
vital with the charms that were strongest to 
appeal to his masculine sense of chivalric 
fealty and personal appropriation. As Drew- 
die spoke, Paul’s impulse had been to spring 
forward and kill — not Drewdie himself, for 
Drewdie Poteet was only Drewdie Poteet, and 
merely voiced the sacrilege of a sacrilegious 
age without himself really comprehending it 
— but kill because the first and last recourse 
of the primal man wronged beyond endurance 
is to kill, and because for the moment all else 
had been struck aside and Paul was the primal 
man. 

But he had been prompt to put the grip of 
control on his passion, and he had left Drew- 
die in order to seek in the peopled streets other 
vent for the stress of his emotion. 

He walked on for nearly a mile up the broad 
thoroughfare, lined on either side by retail 
shops which grew smaller the further east he 
went. The street was alive with the mild 
animation of a summer evening. The shop- 
keepers and their families were all out of 


A Rapid Walk and a Closed Gate 65 

doors, grouped in chairs on the sidewalks; 
the men in shirt sleeves; many of the women 
nursing babies ; children romping everywhere 
under the passer’s feet; the loungers, when 
they were not dully silent, chattering in broken 
English and nondescript foreign tongues. 

Paul steered his course along the sidewalk 
automatically, veering around the knots of 
idlers, avoiding the orbits of juvenile comets, 
stepping over a crawling infant, with a me- 
chanical instinct that made no demands upon 
his mental powers. 

It was not until the buildings began to strag- 
gle and the lights to grow irregular that his 
turbulence of resentment and rebellion against 
the shallow materialism for which Drewdie 
Poteet had spoken subsided, before a new pur- 
pose that confronted him with a finality as 
becalmingly real as the solid wall of the 
church suddenly looming before him in the 
shadow. He stopped as abruptly as if the wall 
were an impassable barrier ; his eyes held 
it as though it were a new and strange dis- 
covery ; he stood in front of it, his face lifted 
to its dark mass, a long breath, like the first 
that one inhales when coming out of a close 
air, distending his nostrils. 

5 


66 


The Inlander 


A clock struck the half-hour through the 
deserted silence, and he turned and with the 
impulse of a new determination began rapidly- 
retracing his steps. When he reached First 
Street again, he plunged south into that. He 
had a sensation as if he were walking on a 
treadwheel. There was motion, but he did 
not seem to advance. A negro trotted a 
horse up and down the street for exercise, and 
the clatter appeared incessant and aimless. 
On the asphalt before him a youth was hold- 
ing a girl on a bicycle as she pedalled with the 
uncertainty of a beginner, and to Paul it was 
as if he had followed the pair leagues. Away 
out at Broadway a fire engine dashed across 
the street, then a second, and a third ; and it 
seemed the same engine that comes and goes 
silently and forever among the views of a 
kinetoscope. 

At last he reached Gray Street and turned 
into it with a slight slackening of his steps, as 
if the tension of his race were suddenly relaxed, 
or over. 

Gray is a short street in the old residence 
quarter of Louisville, from which the tide of 
fashion has set further outward, leaving it a 
shady slit of serenity and antiquity in the 


A Rapid Walk and a Closed Gate 67 

heart of the city. With only a few exceptions, 
its houses are old, ranging from several plain 
and spacious mansions of the conservative well- 
to-do, through the two-story brick houses of 
the less pretentious, to the cottages of the 
wholly unpretentious. They stand under forest 
trees in grassy yards, and the old-time brick 
sidewalks are laid around the boles of two 
rows of great sycamores and maples, sentinel- 
ling a quietude that is rarely broken by any 
commotion more strenuous than the laughter 
of children at play. 

As Paul Rodman entered the sylvan gloom 
of this street to-night, the stillness was only 
intensified, not disturbed, by a murmur of 
fitful talk that drifted to him from a vine-hid 
veranda, and by the croon, somewhere, of a 
woman’s lullaby. In one darkened doorway 
were light draperies and the lazy flutter of a 
fan. Through a window a yellow-shaded lamp 
shone, and in its mellow glow he saw the lace 
curtains stirred faintly by a breeze that was 
too languorous to ripple a leaf nearer him, 
though it seemed to bring to him the insidious 
odors that the balm and the dew distilled from 
the summer night. A square ahead an electric 
globe suffused the overhanging foliage of June 


68 


The Inlander 


with the tenderest tints of April. Not far be- 
yond this Paul opened a little iron gate and 
stepped into the inclosure in which, under 
the trees, the modest home of Lucy Arnan 
nestled. 

As the gate clicked behind him, it closed 
upon all his past, — his indefinite longings, his 
tentative stirrings, his self-imposed restraint, 
all his immature youth ; and he went toward 
the house with the sure stride of a man in his 
manhood, who knew his own, and his way to 
it, steadied by this great new knowledge, 
quickened by the new call that had come to 
him, all-submerging in its sweetness, all impel- 
ling in its might, to stand henceforth by the 
side of the girl he loved, to encompass her 
with the protection of his strength and the 
reverence of his devotion. 

Ten minutes after she came down to him in 
her little parlor that night, he had impetuously 
swept aside every hesitating quibble which she 
had opposed to his sudden avowal, had won 
her promise to be his wife, and before he left, 
with transfigured countenance, hours later, had 
forced her consent that the engagement should 
be announced at once. 


VII 


THE HOUSE IN THE HIGHLANDS 

They were to be married at the end of a year. 
Lucy Arnan would not consent to an earlier 
wedding. She was pleased to convince Paul 
that she was not a mere “ society girl,” with 
no conception of the practical side of life. 
The two put their heads together, and dis- 
cussed the practical side of life with unreserved 
confidences, and in all the tender romance 
and sweet witchery in which the practical side 
of life can be discussed by two young lovers 
shut off from it in some cosy corner of their 
own little world, and shut in with nothing 
more practical than murmured hopes, meeting 
glances, and touching hands. These delight- 
ful confidences disclosed that Lucy had noth- 
ing, and that Paul had little, — very little, 
indeed, for two. Lucy was glad to begin 
with Paul at the bottom, and Paul knew that 
with her by his side he could make his way 
upward all the surer and faster. They agreed 


7 ° 


The Inlander 


that they would not have had it otherwise, for 
those who did not begin their married lives 
at the bottom missed that perfection of a 
true marriage known only to those who work 
and win with each other, for each other. 
Nevertheless, Lucy was positive that a year, at 
least — she at first held out for two years — 
was as soon as she could go to Paul without 
being such a burden upon him as to handicap 
rather than help him, and Paul had to content 
himself with his victory when he made her cut 
the two years’ waiting to one. 

It was truly a wonderful year for Paul, — a 
year in which he realized instead of hoped that 
the highest estate of man was to be his; in 
which his buoyant energy was employed in 
tangible preparations for his entrance upon 
that estate, while his beatified leisure was spent 
in the company of the girl to whom he owed 
the certainty and the completeness of it all. 
He pushed his business with ardor. Before, 
he had found a zest in his work because he 
liked it, and because it was to enable him to 
take the place which he meant to take in the 
world; now, he felt the elixir of work which 
was for her who was to share that place with 
him, and which was to make it worthy of her. 


The House in the Highlands 71 

But it was not until he bought a lot upon 
which to build their own home, that he proved 
how much work a man could do in twenty-four 
hours, and how many hours of the twenty-four 
he could still spend with Lucy Arnan. He 
described the lot to Barney Carruthers and 
Drewdie Poteet as “ a bargain in the High- 
lands, with an acre of real trees on it, a mil- 
lion acres of real sky above it, and all of 
Cherokee Park for a back yard.” It was to 
be a little house, — at first just big enough for 
two, with a spare room for a friend now and 
then, — but it took weeks to decide on the 
plans ; weeks which were all too short, as they 
necessitated many extra visits to Gray Street, 
and many extra hours of consultation with 
Lucy Arnan. When the house actually began 
to go up, every detail of it was person- 
ally supervised by Paul with a concern that 
prompted many alterations in the original 
plans and many further conferences with Lucy. 
Occasionally, when Lucy and he were hope- 
lessly dubious on some point, Barney Carru- 
thers and Drewdie Poteet were called into 
consultation; and Drewdie, who, since the 
night when he had tried to discourage Paul’s 
preference for Lucy, had sought to assist Paul 


The Inlander 


72 

in forgetting that mishap by a greater show 
of friendliness to both him and Lucy Arnan, 
usually managed to solve the difficulties by 
suggestions so happy that he surprised himself 
and began to ponder whether he had not been 
intended for an architect instead of an author. 

Barney Carruthers at first had been some- 
what shy and constrained in the presence of 
Lucy Arnan, but after he had once allowed 
himself to tell her a joke at Paul’s expense and 
found that she relished it as heartily as Paul 
himself did, he not only began to feel at his 
ease with her, but he admitted to Drewdie that 
he had liked her “ from the jump.” 

“I tell you, Drewdie Poteet,” he said, as 
soon as the two were out of Paul’s hearing, 
“ that girl ’s a brick, or I don’t know a tenth 
as much about women as even Polly Rodman 
knows.” 

“Well, maybe she is,” Drewdie conceded. 
“ Let ’s hope for the best. I only meant that 
I did n’t think her one of those way-up girls 
that would suit a way-up fellow like Rod.” 

“ Let me tell you a little secret, Drewdie. 
A way-up fellow, like Polly, usually pulls up 
the girl he is in love with, if she ’s in love with 
him. If she finds out that he’s as ignorant 


The House in the Highlands 73 

about women as Polly is, and that he believes 
her to be a way-up girl, she ’s going to do her 
best to get up just as near the notch he thinks 
her in as she can. And as long as they are in 
love with each other, and she tries to live up 
to his ignorance, a man like Polly will never 
discover the difference ; and, anyway, what is 
the difference ?” 

“ Maybe it will come out all right, after all. 
Girls and men that don’t seem like the right 
thing for happy marriages often turn out the 
very thing, you know.” 

“ Which is lucky enough, as they are the 
sort that usually marry each other.” 

As the house neared completion the interest 
which Barney Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet 
took in it seemed to be less only than that 
of Paul himself. There were few walks of the 
three now which did not end with the High- 
lands, a seat on some part of the unfinished 
building, and a conference as to progress, with 
a detailed exhibition by Paul of what had been 
done and an explanation of what was proposed. 
Nor was it often necessary for Paul to lead the 
walks in that direction. Drewdie was usually 
ready to express a desire to see how his own 
architectural suggestions were being carried 


74 


The Inlander 


out, and Barney as frequently, when the trio 
set forth, would relieve Drewdie of the 
initiative. 

“ I move that for a change we stroll to the 
Highlands this time,” he would say. “ I want 
to see if that house is still there. Course, I 
remember that Polly got out of bed last night 
and went up to see if it was still safe, but that 
was hours and hours ago.” Or : “ Gentlemen, 
I will now take you to see the sights of the 
city. First and foremost, I will show you, 
what you may possibly have heard of, but can 
never have seen, a house, — to be specific, a 
dwelling-house, when constructed. The city 
of Louisville may not be able to prove that 
this is the only house in the world, gentlemen, 
but there is no doubt that it is the only one of 
its kind known to be in existence.” 

At last it was finished ; and then was the 
even more interesting work of furnishing it, — 
more interesting to Paul because this required 
the personal co-operation of Lucy Arnan. 
She hesitated a little when he first proposed 
it. People would talk so, she objected, blush- 
ing. But he had his way. People be hanged ! 
Besides, everybody knew of the coming wed- 
ding. So it was that Lucy and he went to 


The House in the Highlands 75 

the shops together, and spent days inspect- 
ing, consulting, deciding, and undeciding, — the 
most wonderfully happy days that Paul even 
yet had known ; for in this common and open 
preparation of the home they were to share, the 
last barrier between them seemed to have van- 
ished and the marriage vows remained as only 
a formality; while, unconcealed and practical 
as it all was, the sweetness and sacredness of 
its meaning, for them alone, were such as to 
exclude all outward intrusion. Not even 
Barney Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet had 
any part in the work of these last days. 

Then came a time when everything had been 
done, and the little house stood ready, with the 
keys in Paul’s pocket. The wedding was only 
four days away now, — a church wedding, 
which Lucy had determined on because there 
were so many people she ought to invite ; and 
Barney Carruthers was in a pitiful stew with 
the tailors and his responsibilities as best man, 
though Drewdie Poteet, who was to be a 
groomsman, had come to the rescue and had 
taken all the responsibilities on his own ade- 
quate shoulders. 

Paul conducted his two cronies to the High- 
lands the first night after the house was fur- 


The Inlander 


76 

nished, and threw it open for their admiration. 
Not a cranny of it was unexposed, not an 
electric button unpressed, not an ingenious 
contrivance for Lucy’s comfort in closet or 
dining-room was left unexploited. Drewdie 
was critically explicit in his approval, and 
Barney walked from point to point almost on 
tiptoe. 

Upstairs Paul turned on the light in what 
might have been taken for a smoking-room if 
it had not also been fitted up as a bedroom. 

“We started out to have one spare room,” 
Paul explained, “ but we ended with two, — 
this and the one adjoining. That one we call 
Drewdie Poteet’s room ; this one, Barney Car- 
ruthers’. Whenever you old chaps feel like 
taking a walk to the Highlands, you will always 
find your rooms ready for you. It — it,” 
Paul’s voice was becoming a little unsteady, 
“ was as much Lucy’s idea as mine. We ’ve 
had a good time together, podners, and — and 
— well, I swear it sha’n’t end now! ” 

Paul turned his back on the other two, to 
raise a window and look hard at his coal- 
house; Drewdie took a quick step toward 
Paul and then turned his back, to examine the 
pipes on the mantel ; while Barney sat down 


The House in the Highlands 77 

on the nearest chair, with an expression as 
if he had summoned a laugh that would 
not come, and seeing two backs, dashed his 
knuckles across his eyes and roared, — 

“ You infernal lunkhead, Polly Rodman ! 
Who the tarnation ever said it would end? ” 

Later, as Paul was making sure of the locks 
on the outer doors, Barney and Drewdie 
walked down to the gate. 

“Do you reckon,” asked Drewdie, a little 
dolefully, “ there was ever anybody any hap- 
pier than old Rod is, and has been for a 
year?” 

“ Never was,” Barney replied, “ and never 
will be — except Rod himself, to-morrow. 
Rod is in a higher heaven every day now than 
he was the day before. That’s the way he 
was built.” 

“And it is all through Lucy Arnan. I’d 
give a million if I had n’t spoken to him about 
her in that shabby way, that time.” 

“ Don’t you worry. He has n’t ever shown 
you he remembers it, has he? ” 

“ Not once.” 

“ Then you may go broke that if he remem- 
bers it he only pities you for your ignorance, 
or your inability to appreciate such a fine girl.” 


The Inlander 


7 b 

Barney’s tone might have indicated that he 
himself had come to pity Drewdie for the 
same reason. 

As the three tramped back that night, they 
were almost as quiet as the sleeping streets 
through which they passed. Usually their 
walks were filled with chat and snatches of 
song, but to-night they stalked solemnly arm 
in arm, the spell of the little house in the 
Highlands upon them, and in some sense the 
realization that this would probably be their 
last walk together before Paul’s marriage, after 
which, be their friendship what it might, it 
could never be just the same. 


VIII 

THE HOUSE ON GRAY STREET 

That was Saturday night. The wedding was 
to be Tuesday. Sunday night found Paul 
Rodman at the door of the house on Gray 
Street unusually early. He had not seen 
Lucy Arnan since Saturday afternoon, and he 
was impatient to end the long separation. 

The door opening to his ring, he was about 
to step in, as had come to be his custom, with- 
out asking for Lucy, assuming, of course, that 
he was expected ; his glow of happiness fur- 
ther fed by the belief that she awaited him 
with something of his own eagerness. But 
for the first time since he had known Lucy he 
was intercepted by the servant. 

“ Miss Lucy wishes to be excused to-night, 
Mr. Rodman,” the girl said, with parrot-like 
precision. “ She is not feeling very well and 
has retired.” 


8o 


The Inlander 


“Oh!” he replied a little blankly. “Tell 
her I ’m very, very sorry, and that I will call 
again to-morrow morning.” 

He turned away and walked slowly along 
the street. His disappointment was so sudden 
and so great that its effect, at first, was one of 
dull bewilderment. His mind was an indefinite 
and depressed jumble. It was like a gong 
which vibrates, not with any force of its own, 
but from that of an exterior blow. Thus he 
strolled on for a square, under the dense 
shadows of the trees, when he was recalled to 
consciousness that he was on a public street 
by a “ Beg your pardon ” from a man against 
whom he had brushed. Almost instantly, as 
he reviewed more sanely the incident of his 
call two minutes before, he was deluged by a 
tide of self-condemnation and solicitude for 
Lucy. He realized now that in the shock to 
his selfishness caused by the collapse of his 
expectation to spend the evening with her, 
he had lost sight of the possible serious- 
ness of her illness. Self-wrapt brute that he 
was, he had not even thought to seek Mrs. 
Arnan and learn from her whether there was 
any cause for fear that Lucy’s indisposition 
was more than trivial and temporary. He 


The House on Gray Street 8 1 

turned and swiftly retraced his steps to the 
house. 

When the servant opened the door to him 
again, he entered, hardly pausing as he passed 
her. 

“ Tell Mrs. Arnan I wish to see her a mo- 
ment,” he directed. 

He walked on toward the little library at the 
end of the hall, where he knew that Mrs. Arnan 
was often to be found. 

“ Yes, sir. She ain’t in there, Mr. Rodman,” 
the servant answered quickly. “ Have a seat 
in the parlor.” 

But Paul was near enough to see a section 
of a skirt through the library door. 

“You needn’t mind, Betty,” he said to the 
girl ; “ I ’ll find Mrs. Arnan.” 

Long afterwards Paul recalled that as Betty 
disappeared she seemed to be suppressing a 
titter. 

He went on into the library. Some one was 
seated at a table, writing. But it was Lucy, 
instead of Mrs. Arnan. 

She looked up at him as he entered, and the 
light fell on her face with a strange, opaque 
effect. 

If when, a few minutes before, he had been 
6 


82 


The Inlander 


denied admission Paul’s first thought was of 
himself, his first thought now was of Lucy. 
He hurried to her, both hands extended. 

“ Oh, it is you ! ” he cried, in a voice of 
profound thankfulness and joy. “ I was afraid 
you might be really ill.” 

She rose and let him take her limp hand. 
Her face was relaxed, almost bloodless, as 
from weariness, but her eyes deepened and 
softened as she looked intently at Paul. 

“What did Betty tell you?” she asked 
finally, in a tone more in keeping with the 
face than the eyes. 

“That you were not feeling well and had 
retired,” he answered gently. 

“ Yes, I ordered her to say that,” with a faint, 
fleeting smile. “ I wished to go up early to- 
night; but I had a letter to write first.” 

Paul drew her to him tenderly and held her, 
with his arm about her. 

“You do look tired,” he said anxiously; 
“ and you are not yourself this evening. You 
must put off the letter-writing and get a long 
night’s rest. Come, let me see you start now. 
It will give me an opportunity to accompany 
you as far as the stairs.” 

His last sentence was spoken with an affec- 


The House on Gray Street 83 

tation of cheerful lightness to which she did not 
respond. He felt her form straighten by his 
side, and for the first time since his coming 
she returned the clasp of his hand. 

“ No ! no ! ” she exclaimed, with a vehemence 
in marked contrast with her previous manner. 
“ I do not wish you to go yet. I am not ill. 
Indeed, it is not that. You must stay with me 
a little while now.” 

“But do you think you ought to let me ?” 
doubtfully. 

“Yes, yes! I sha’n’t let you go for ten — 
no, fifteen minutes. You must stay for fifteen 
minutes; then you must go.” 

She was trying to laugh, but it was plain 
that she was tremendously in earnest. 

She led him to the sofa, and, her hand still in 
his, drew him to a seat on it close by her side. 

“ Now talk to me ! talk to me ! ” she said, 
her head resting against the wall, her eyes 
closed. “Tell me the beautiful things you 
think of me ! Tell them again ! Tell them 
all ! ” 

Paul answered with a short laugh of delight. 
He had told her those things before, but she 
had never before invited, ordered him to tell 
them. 


The Inlander 


84 

He began as if to humor her, half playfully 
at first, but soon continued with a fervor that 
caused now his low voice to falter and again 
his hastening words to overleap each other im- 
petuously. And they were, indeed, beautiful 
things he told her, — idyllic, divine, — for he 
spoke to her out of the fulness of the dreams 
of his secluded, poetic boyhood, and in her he 
saw their perfect incarnation. She listened 
to him silently, only an occasional pressure 
of her hand, the dawning glow in her pale 
cheeks, the irregular commotion of the violets 
on her bosom, attesting that she heard. 

“ And now,” he concluded, “ my fifteen 
minutes are up,” leaning over and lightly 
touching with his lips her closed lids. “ That 
is for a sweet sleep. Good-night.” 

He rose to go, but she sprang up at the 
same time, and catching his arm, cried quickly, 
as if suddenly wakened in alarm from a shallow 
sleep, — 

“ No ! no ! Not yet ! Just a little longer ! 
Just five minutes more ! ” 

If every hour of Paul’s life before that had 
been torture, it would have been worth it all 
to live for that moment. 

“ Surely,” he beamed, “ we may allow our- 


The House on Gray Street 85 

selves five minutes more. Really,” bending 
to her as if to whisper a secret, “ you are 
looking quite yourself again : indeed, you are 
looking more beautiful than I ever saw you.” 

She did not seem to heed, but said rapidly, 
brokenly, — 

“ There are some things yet — some things 
that I want to hear you say — that I want to 
say — that — oh, Paul, look at me ! ” 

She lifted her face, her eyes wide, rapt, 
searching his. 

“Tell me again that you love me.” 

He smiled at her mood, at the superfluous- 
ness of such an assurance. But he answered 
with vibrant gravity, — 

“ I love you, Lucy, — more than you will 
ever know, more than I can ever make you 
understand.” 

“ And you will love me always? ” 

“ Always.” 

“ Not less, whatever happens? ” 

“ Nothing could happen to make me love 
you less.” 

She bowed her head against his arm, which 
she still held. For several seconds she was 
silent and motionless, except for one quivering 
sigh. Then she looked up at him again. 


86 


The Inlander 


“ And I love you, Paul, — you always, you 
alone, whatever happens. Never forget that, 
Paul.” 

“ I know that, dear. I am as sure of your 
love for me as I am of mine for you. That is 
the glorious perfection of it.” He took her 
hands, and holding them together, lifted them 
to his lips. 

“ And now, Paul, kiss me ! ” 

As he kissed her mouth once, twice, with 
reverent passion, her arms pressed him con- 
vulsively. 

“ Good-night, Paul,” she almost sobbed. 
“ Good-bye. Now you must go. Go ! go ! ” 

She pushed him toward the door, but when 
he reached it she flung herself suddenly be- 
tween it and him. 

“ Wait ! ” There was an electric change in 
tone and manner. “ You shall not go yet. I 
have something to tell you.” 

“ Why, Lucy,” all his solicitude for her re- 
turning, “ how excited you are ! I should not 
have remained at all. Come,” soothingly, 
“ you must put me out, and get to sleep at 
once.” 

, “ If I am excited, it is because of what I have 
to tell you. I did not expect to tell you face 


The House on Gray Street 87 

to face. I intended to write it to you. I had 
begun the letter when you came. But I am 
not going to be such a coward now. I will 
tell you with my own lips. Please light an- 
other jet of the chandelier. I am not afraid 
of the light now.” 

Paul, surprised and puzzled, did as he was 
requested, utterly unable to account for this 
singular conduct of Lucy’s. Outwardly now 
she was composed. Her face was pale and 
resolute, and if her voice, which had hardened, 
betrayed any unsteadiness, it was the tremor 
of a steel rapier. 

As Paul, after lighting the jet, turned to her 
again, she had thrown herself on the sofa, 
where she sat, her burning eyes fixed on him. 
He went toward her, but stopped before her, 
studying her in open perplexity. 

“ I should ask you to sit down again,” she 
said in almost even, tense tones ; “ but you 
would refuse, when you know. You will never 
sit down in — this house again.” 

“ Lucy ! ” his low exclamation, as he took a 
quick step forward, was a cry of mingled pro- 
test and apprehension for her. “What is it 
that is troubling you, dear? Why are you 
talking so strangely?” 


88 


The Inlander 


She warded him off with her hand. “ Don’t 
come nearer ! Don’t touch me ! You will 
understand in a — in a moment. Only give 
me a little time.” 

He waited, speechless, not knowing what 
further to say, never taking his eyes from the 
rigid figure, the head now turned half aside, 
the hands clutching each other in her lap. 

Suddenly she began speaking, without chang- 
ing her posture, without looking at him, a 
spasmodic twitch of the hands being the only 
physical reflex of her words. 

“ When I instructed Betty not to admit you 
to-night, it was not because I was not feeling 
well, but because I did not intend to see you. 
I — there was something you had to know, 
which I did not think I had the courage to tell 
you, except by letter. But now, well, you 
shall not accuse me of that contemptibleness.” 

“ Surely, Lucy, there can be nothing that 
should disturb you — that should — ” 

She whirled upon him, and thrusting her 
hand in her bosom, drew out a letter and ex- 
tended it to him. 

“ Read it ! ” she ordered. “ That will ex- 
plain.” 

He took it, his eyes on her rather than on 


The House on Gray Street 89 

the letter. He unfolded the sheet, still study- 
ing her inscrutable face ; then, glancing at the 
letter, he again looked over it to her. 

“ Why,” he said, “ this is to you.” 

“ Read it. He would not mind.” 

It was written on the ruled paper of a New 
York hotel, in a florid hand that might have 
been acquired in a “ business college.” It 
ran: — 

The Ellsmore, New York, June 7. 
Miss Lucy Arnan Louisville Ky 

Dear Miss Lucy I am sorry I cannot see you 
in person to talk over this matter but I am booked to 
sail for London Monday and it is most important that 
I don’t Fail to make connection — To come to the 
point perhaps you have seen that I am now a Free 
man — The decree was handed down this morning 
so my lawyers wire me — I am the happiest of men 
for it gives me liberty to follow my heart — My love 
my darling you must have known that I have long 
worshipt the very ground you tred on and that 
nothing but circumstances kept me from throwing 
myself and mine at your Feet. Say you will marry 
me little sweetheart and reward my long waiting — 
This should reach you by Saturday please wire your 
answer by Sunday night at latest — I will return from 
Europe in 3 weeks when all the arrangements can be 
Fixed up — The late Mrs. O was allowed a pretty 


9 ° 


The Inlander 


stiff Alimony also the children but there is enough 
left for Two and love in a cottige — I will settle 
$100,000 on you before the not is tied — Wire me 
yes at once little woman 

Yours with 1000 K-sses 

Judd F Oxnard 

As Paul read this the veins on his temples 
began to swell and the muscles of his jaws 
tautened visibly. By the time he had finished 
it the nails of his clenched fist were driven into 
his palm with the force with which at the 
moment he longed to tear the throat of the 
writer. Murder was in his plunging heart, in 
his contracted sinews. For the instant it was 
almost as if Oxnard himself were in the room, 
and Paul, on account of Lucy’s presence, felt the 
necessity of temporary self-restraint. Mainly 
for the purpose of gaining time for that 
restraint, he re-read the letter slowly, from 
beginning to end. 

Then crumpling the sheet in his hand, he 
threw it to the floor, and turning again to Lucy 
Arnan, he stepped to her side, his whole 
countenance suffused with the light of love 
and compassion that welled from his eyes. 

“ Lucy ! ” his voice at once a throbbing 


The House on Gray Street 91 

caress and proud reassurance, “why should 
you have feared to show me that letter, dear? 
Did you think it possible for me to misjudge 
you? Did you doubt that I should know you 
were not in the least responsible for his pre- 
sumption, — that you had given him no more 
cause for his insolence than an angel in heaven? 
Why, there is no angel in heaven that scoun- 
drel would not insult.” 

He had stooped, one knee on the sofa be- 
side her, and reached to take her hand; but 
she stood up at once, straight and aloof. 

There was a brief silence between them, — he 
at a loss to interpret her mood, she gazing at 
him contemplatively, with eyes that gradually 
filled. 

“ Oh, Paul ! ” she said a little sadly, “ why 
are you not more like other men? It never 
occurred to me you would take that view of it. 
Please go now. You make it impossible for 
me to talk to you about it. I will write you — 
the rest.” 

He placed his arm around her and spoke 
soothingly: “Don’t think of it any more, 

Lucy. Come, let us sit down. I want to 
tell you of a visit to the house last night with 
Barney Carruthers and Drewdie Poteet.” 


92 


The Inlander 


She slipped away from him and walked 
swiftly toward the door. When she reached 
Oxnard’s crumpled letter on the carpet, she 
stopped, wrung her hands for a second, and 
then suddenly confronted Paul again, deter- 
mination crystallized in look and tone. 

“ I have answered Mr. Oxnard’s letter,” she 
said defiantly. 

“ That was like you,” he returned with a 
tender smile. “ It was treating him with most 
charitable consideration, though he deserved 
none at all.” 

“ I have answered that I would marry him,” 
she continued in a high monotone. 

Paul gazed at her curiously, with penetrat- 
ing concentration. To hear Lucy Arnan jest 
on such a subject grated on him sensitively, 
and to see her mask her jest in such a simula- 
tion of seriousness stirred in him a vague 
foreboding. 

But his scrutiny soon relaxed in a smile. 
“ Don’t you think you are a little cruel, Lucy 
Arnan,” he said lightly, “ to try to joke with 
me about such things?” 

Her eyes fell, and her voice was lower as she 
replied, — 

“ I am not — trying to do that.” 


The House on Gray Street 93 

At last he was fully aroused, and he spoke 
imperatively. 

“Lucy! What do you mean? What are 
you telling me?” 

“ Simply the truth. I shall marry Mr. Ox- 
nard. I telegraphed him my consent to-day.” 

The words were deliberate ; it was more as 
if she were soliloquizing than addressing Paul. 

His compressed lips seemed faintly traced 
in chalk, but he made no motion except to 
throw back his head a little as he looked at 
her with a directness which she would not 
meet. 

“ I do not understand you,” he said with 
the same directness. 

She made a slight, deprecating gesture, dis- 
missing the subject. 

“ There is no more to say,” she replied with 
a touch of weariness. “ I have spoken as 
plainly as I know how.” 

The pallor of his stern face was suddenly 
flooded by a dull red. The swollen veins 
were knotted purple. His eyes blazed, and 
he strode up to her and stood over her as 
though he would grind her beneath his heel. 

She did not recede from him, but with one 
glance at his distorted face, bowed her head, 


94 


The Inlander 


covering her eyes with her hand, and shudder- 
ing with an inarticulate exclamation. 

He grasped her wrist and uncovered her 
eyes, her pulse, as he retained his grip, striking 
like a thong against his palm. 

“ Look at me ! ” he commanded. 

Her eyes lifted to him as if against her will. 

“You tell me that you are going to marry 
this man? ” 

“ Yes,” faintly, after a moment of waiting. 

“ You who were to marry me in forty -eight 
hours? ” 

There was no response. 

“ Speak ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And who confessed your love for me not 
ten minutes ago ? ” 

“ Yes ” 

His chest swelled with one great breath ; his 
eyes left hers, looking beyond her vacantly ; he 
dropped her wrist and walked silently past her 
to the door. 

Before he could open it she had rushed to 
him and laid her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Don’t go like this, Paul Rodman ! ” she 
appealed and demanded. “ Wait till you 
have heard all I have to say.” 


The House on Gray Street 95 

“ Is it possible that there is anything more 
you would say?” he asked with a harsh re- 
straint of his voice. 

The suggestion of a smile flickered and died 
away around her lips, leaving, instead, lines 
like those which an exhausting vigil sometimes 
brings to the smoothest face. 

“ Paul,” she said more softly, “ we ought to 
be plain with each other now.” She leaned 
forward, and taking the lapel of his coat be- 
tween her fingers, toyed with it fondly, look- 
ing up to him as she spoke in a way that 
would have enslaved him five minutes before. 
“ When you once think about it seriously, you 
will agree with me that we should not marry 
— now. I have nothing, and you have your 
way to make in the world. I should be a 
burden to you, and in time I fear you would 
come to feel it. I could not bear that.” 

“ Ugh ! ” he scoffed roughly. “ No more 
of that ! ” 

“ Don’t let us be silly, Paul,” she went on. 
“ Life is a very different thing from what you 
have fancied it. I know this seems very — 
inconsiderate of me now — so near the — wed- 
ding, and people will talk horribly, but I shall 
suffer from that more than you, and — ” 


The Inlander 


96 

He turned from her in supreme disgust, and 
opening the door passed on into the hall, but 
she sprang after him and threw her arms 
around his neck. 

“ Listen ! listen, Paul ! ” she panted. 

He stood looking down at her, amazed at 
the transformation she had undergone in an 
instant. Every trace of weariness or hard- 
ness had left her. Her face had warmed to 
a delicate rose. Her eyes were slumberous 
fire, over which the lids drooped, like petals 
of a flower wilted by the heat. Her full, red 
lips were slightly parted, as if shaped to the 
fervid plea that had just left them. The quick 
respirations that made a tumult of her bosom 
seemed to undulate through every line of her 
sinuous figure. She swayed nearer to him; 
her breath brushed his cheek like a midday 
air from a swooning summer garden; a lan- 
guorous fragrance ascended from the bruised 
violets at her breast. “ Listen, Paul ! ” she 
murmured. “ Let us be sensible. I love you ! 
I shall always love you! What is — Judd 
Oxnard to us? Such men are necessary evils. 
Besides, he has heart trouble, and it will not 
be many years before I can be your wife.” 

Paul, for a little, was powerless to move or 


The House on Gray Street 97 

speak. His color was like the swarthy pallor 
that results from lead poisoning. The hall 
was as close as a vault, and his one impulse 
was to get away, into the air. 

Mechanically he unclasped her arms from 
about him, and, without looking toward her 
again, went slowly from the house. 


7 


IX 


“THE BRAND OF A BURNT-OUT STAR 

He stepped into the street and walked on 
automatically. All his mental faculties seemed 
locked. He had no acute sensation, either of 
anguish or wrath, regret or despair. He felt 
merely a numb, inert body, moving, through 
no exertion of his own, to no destination. An 
old dream which had repeated itself in his 
childhood came back to him, and, as in that, 
he was walking, freed from the law of gravita- 
tion, through space, and all other objects were 
stationary. He never knew that a policeman 
followed him half a square, and he was hardly 
conscious that a hack driver, who had come 
near running over him, pulled up and offered 
to take him home. 

He went on and on for hours through this 
dead space until finally he found himself look- 
ing at the bronze soldier at the end of Third 
Street. He revolved idly a memory of having 
seen the same soldier once before that night, 


“The Brand of a Burnt-out Star” 


99 


followed by a dim phantasm of fields and 
trees. He laughed a little as he took the 
trouble to reason it out. Yes, he had passed 
the soldier earlier in the night and gone on 
into the country for his walk. 

Leaving the monument now and returning 
along Third Street, he became more irritat- 
ingly observant. A bicyclist, speeding in from 
the boulevard, shot by, ladening the air with 
an abominable odor of lamp. A watchman, 
officiously whacking a wall with his club, had 
nothing better to do than to make the night 
hideous. The bumpkin half asleep on the 
gardener’s wagon ought to be compelled to 
get down and take the place of the lame 
horse ahead, click-clicking interminably on the 
asphalt. 

But when Paul finally reached his rooms he 
was mystified, on removing his hat, by the 
water which trickled from the brim. Looking 
through the window, he noticed for the first 
time a softly falling rain. 

He took a chair by the open window and 
sat staring out at the needles of water glinting 
in the electric street-light. He stared one, 
two, three hours, until the rain ceased, a fresh 
breeze stirred, and the stars shone down. 


LofC. 


IOO 


The Inlander 


At last he moved, to lean forward suddenly 
and curiously; for here in the heart of the 
city floated to his ears the clear notes of a 
whippoorwill’s call. 

Then he remembered. Down the street was 
a jeweller’s shop, in the window of which was 
a large clock that preceded the strokes of the 
hour with a musical simulation of the whip- 
poorwill’s cry. And he remembered more; 
for the stupor that had held him so long 
seemed to lift, leaving him on the old veranda 
of his boyhood’s home, where he had lounged 
of an evening and dreamed his dreams of 
woman and love, while the refrain of a whip- 
poorwill drifted to him from the thicket across 
the fields. And in one swift, infinity-illumin- 
ing flash he spanned the distance between the 
song of the whippoorwill in the Tennessee 
copse to the song of the whippoorwill in the 
brazen clock. His head fell on his arms, 
stretched along the window-sill, and his whole 
frame was wrenched and contorted by a word- 
less groan of agony. 

He shivered where he had fallen, for per- 
haps a minute, though in that time he lived 
over and over the beauty of his youth, the 
night’s crash of his life, the hell of his future. 


“The Brand of a Burnt-out Star” 


IOI 


He rose to his feet and opened his lungs to 
the cool air of the nearing dawn. 

Out from the stars a meteor shot, cleaving 
the night and dying in the graying east. 

He turned away, and as his eyes fell on the 
wall of his room he saw stencilled upon it, in 
obedience to a law which sometimes affects the 
physically exhausted, the track of the meteor. 

The same track, in pale rose, glowed in his 
eyes as he closed them. 

“ Barney’s squab,” he said aloud, with two 
notes of a self-mocking laugh, “ and the brand 
of a burnt-out star.” 

Then he went up to the portrait of his long- 
dead mother, a girl whose soft hair, drawn in 
an old fashion smoothly over her ears, framed 
a face of ethereal delicacy and loveliness. 

It was the only picture of a woman in the 
room ; and opening his knife, he cut out the 
canvas and tore it into strips, which he dropped 
into a waste-basket. 


X 


A SUGGESTION FOR A PLAY 

A SUPERFICIAL observer would have said that 
the next seven years wrought no greater 
change in Paul Rodman than such a period 
of time usually works in one of his age. 
Everybody remembered, of course, the “ sen- 
sation ” in which he had figured, — how heart- 
lessly, and what was more impressive, how 
vulgarly, he had been jilted by Lucy Arnan 
for Judd Oxnard’s money. But those less 
intimate with him than Barney Carruthers and 
Drewdie Poteet could not have said that his 
character had suffered any radical and lasting 
hurt from that experience. After the first 
shock had passed he appeared to the world as 
he had always appeared to it, — straightforward, 
unobtrusively active, quietly cheerful. He 
went about his business as before. He was 
seen as much in society as ever, and he con- 
tinued to show, in his manner, at least, that 
deference to women which had been so nota- 


A Suggestion for a Play 103 

bly a part of his heritage from “ the Old 
South.” If this deference had become more 
superficial than real, if its expression was now 
more the result of breeding than of feeling, no 
such accusation was put in words, and it could 
have been based on nothing more tangible, 
perhaps, than the intuition of the finer natures 
among those women who knew him both be- 
fore and after his affair with Lucy Arnan. 

In all these seven years since that affair 
Paul Rodman’s name, in a city given to much 
small talk, had never been connected with that 
of another woman. He had shown no partial- 
ity for one above others, and had afforded the 
most watchful no cause for suspicion that he 
ever thought of installing another in the place 
in his life which Lucy Arnan had forfeited. 

He was not a woman-hater ; he was simply 
no longer a woman-worshipper. The sum of 
his philosophy regarding women was that, 
beginning with the utmost faith in them, he 
had now no faith in himself. He did not 
doubt that there were women who realized in 
every respect his youthful ideals, but he had 
lost all confidence in his ability to distinguish 
such women from their counterfeits. He had 
been deceived, completely and terribly, and 


io4 


The Inlander 


from the night on which he had destroyed his 
mother’s picture he had no thought of risking 
a second deception. He regretted, often and 
acutely, the destruction of the picture, as a 
heartless and insane act. He had committed 
it in an hour when, in the bitterness of his 
soul, he had cursed all womankind as a weak 
and beautiful profanation of a divine idea — an 
hour whose poignancy passed, leaving him free 
of the injustice of estimating all women by 
the one he knew best. He did not assume a 
woman unworthy for no other reason than that 
she was a woman ; nor, alas ! did he now, as 
he once did, assume her worthy because she 
was a woman. He was simply and necessarily 
an agnostic as to the sex, and he was resolved 
never to invite the further penalties of dis- 
regarding his ignorance. 

Thus keeping his place on the lower plane 
to which he had adjusted himself, and contem- 
plating society from that plane alone, he saw 
much that confirmed not only the wisdom, but 
the necessity of his new philosophy. Men of 
his intense nature usually view their surround- 
ings from one extreme or the other, and he 
was now as ready to suspect as before he had 
been to trust. And, of course, he often saw 




A Suggestion for a Play 105 

more than there was to see. The social life of 
a city like Louisville has much in it to dis- 
enchant such a man as Paul Rodman had 
been, but it has more in it to mislead a warped 
judgment to unjust conclusions. 

He had no difficulty in living down to this 
new philosophy concerning women. A win- 
ning face, a fine sympathy, a magnetic 
presence, or what seemed through an ex- 
tended association an admirable and lovable 
character, had no power to move him from the 
non-committal course which he had prescribed 
for himself. All these he had seen, or had 
thought he saw, in Lucy Arnan. The only 
security for him was in memory. 

But he did not obtrude these views even on 
his closest friends. Only once had he sum- 
marized them to Barney Carruthers, in this 
formula, — 

“ I am an ignoramus about women, and 
shall never try to be anything else.” 

Barney approved, and never again did he 
call Paul “ Polly.” 

Lucy Arnan may not have made a woman- 
hater of Paul Rodman, but she had made one 
of Barney Carruthers. 

“ So help me God, Drewdie Poteet,” he had 


io6 


The Inlander 


sworn the first time the two had talked over 
Lucy’s infidelity to Paul, “ I will never speak 
to another woman as long as I live ! ” 

He had kept the oath in spirit, if not liter- 
ally; which was not hard to do, for in his 
shyness he had probably never spoken to 
more than a dozen women outside his own 
family since he came into the world, and never 
to them when he could help it. 

Though Barney and Drewdie often dis- 
cussed Lucy Arnan and her influence on Paul 
Rodman’s life, they never referred to her in 
his hearing, nor did he ever speak of that 
chapter of his past. It was not necessary that 
he should do so to reveal to them the ineradi- 
cable scar it had left. There were times when 
he revealed this so plainly when talking about 
other things that it spurred Barney Carruthers 
to renew and elaborate his oath against women 
as soon as he and Drewdie were alone to- 
gether. 

A crude instance of this will be sufficiently 
illustrative. 

The three friends were in a restaurant one 
night, five or six years after Lucy Arnan’s 
marriage to Judd Oxnard. They had been to 
the theatre, and Drewdie Poteet was seasoning 


A Suggestion for a Play 107 

his oysters with lemon and lamentations over 
the inferiority of the play to his own “ comedy- 
drama,” Love and Locksmiths , which every 
manager in the country had declined. Drew- 
die had some time before decided, owing to 
the wholly inappreciative attitude of the pub- 
lishers, that his Vocation was that of a 
dramatist instead of an author, and Love and 
Locksmiths was the result of that decision. 
Now that he had seen the French “rot” 
which had been put on by the very manager 
who had been most curt in rejecting Love and 
Locksmiths , Drewdie was so wrought up over 
the rank incompetence of the whole “ man- 
agerial tribe” that he was committing the 
barbarity of supplementing the lemon on his 
oysters with tomato catsup and tabasco. 

“ Drewdie,” remarked Paul, “ you say your 
managers complain there is nothing original 
in Love and Locksmiths. I believe I can sug- 
gest something original. That play to-night 
was certainly not original in its mainspring, 
the treachery of a wife to her husband, — a 
French play without such a mainspring might 
be an originality, — but it was worked out with 
some new variations. The French are right 
in agreeing that there can be no stronger 


io8 


The Inlander 


motive for the human drama. But in France 
when a wife proves false they make a comedy 
or a farce, to be laughed at, or if they make a 
tragedy they pose her as the heroine. Over 
here, when we treat the situation seriously, we 
put the faithless wife in a melodrama and let 
her die in black, to slow music, in an atmos- 
phere of spring flowers and wet handkerchiefs. 
Sometimes we let her come very near being 
killed by the husband, though usually we limit 
his bloodshedding to her masculine accomplice. 
In that we are getting pretty close to human 
nature. There is n’t any doubt that when 
the right sort of a man is thus betrayed by 
his wife, his impulse is to kill somebody — 
unless we can find a variation for him — some- 
thing original for the play. There is where 
my suggestion comes in.” 

Drewdie, who was now becalmed, glanced 
at Barney Carruthers significantly, while Bar- 
ney, who had eaten his own oysters and was 
now attacking the over-seasoned plate which 
Drewdie had discarded, grunted, — 

“Oh, shut up, Rod. When it comes to 
plays, Drewdie may not be able to strike the 
combination for the managers; but if he ’s not 
a born playwright, he’s not going to be a 


A Suggestion for a Play 109 

second-hand playwright, and you need n’t try 
to teach him anything. Don’t you know 
Drewdie Poteet and his vocation yet?” 

“ Let ’s see,” Paul went on ; “ Green is a mar- 
ried man. He is all that a husband should be. 
One day, however, he discovers that Black is 
her favored lover. He gets a shot-gun, double- 
barrelled, and walks in on them while they are 
together. Does he shoot them down at once? 
He does not wish to soil his hands with the 
slaughter of such creatures, — to say nothing of 
furnishing Drewdie something original for his 
play. Black is not armed, or if he is, Green 
has the drop on him and compels him to sur- 
render his pistol or knife. Green locks the 
door and thus passes sentence on the two: 

“ 4 1 am not going to kill you, unless that is 
your choice. 

“ ‘ Here are the alternatives, — 

“ * First, I will shoot you both down where 
you stand ; or — 

“ ‘ Second, One of you — it is immaterial 
which — must die here and now by the hands 
of the other. 

“ ‘ If neither of you is willing to be killed by 
the other in order that the other may live, then 
you may fight it out between you until one of 


I IO 


The Inlander 


you is dead. The survivor, if there be a sur- 
vivor, goes free of any further molestation by 
me. 

“ * I will add that when I say one of you 
must die by the hands of the other I mean that 
literally. You will be allowed no weapons.’ ” 

Drewdie Poteet, who was leaning over the 
table writing in a note-book, looked up sud- 
denly. 

“ You don’t mean one would have to strangle 
the other?” he asked. 

“ I suppose that would be what would hap- 
pen, unless they could find some other way to 
do the work.” 

“But — stop — don’t you see that would 
almost make it certain that the woman would 
be the one killed ? ” 

Paul laughed slightly. “ That is the beauty 
of the plan,” he answered. “ If only one is to 
be killed, the woman should be the one.” 

Drewdie swabbed his face with his hand- 
kerchief as he replaced the note-book in his 
pocket. 

“What do you think of the idea, fellows?” 
Paul added. 

“ I don’t know, Rod,” Drewdie ruminated. 
“ It strikes me different ways. But it strikes 


1 1 1 


A Suggestion for a Play 

me hardest that it would be a stunner for a 
horrible play, or story, or something.” 

Barney Carruthers, who had been medita- 
tively lighting and watching burn a stand of 
matches, thus gave his opinion, — 

“ It seems to me that it would depend on 
how it was worked up whether it turned out 
a ‘ something * or something else.” 

As they left the restaurant Barney Carruthers 
and Drewdie Poteet went on outside while 
Paul lingered to pay the bill. 

“ Ain’t seen the cuss look that way for some 
time,” Barney said as they waited. “ Did you 
notice that old, hell-baked smile of his come 
back as he spoke of the woman? ” 

“ Did it? I was too busy trying to get the 
thing on paper.” 

“ Say, Drewdie Poteet,” and Barney struck 
his fist viciously against the iron awning-post, 
“ I ’m willing to take a double-and-twisted oath 
with you that if either one of us ever looks at 
another woman, he is to be buried alive by the 
other.” 


XI 


ACROSS THE YEARS 

In the early weeks of the second summer after 
this incident, Barney Carruthers induced Paul 
Rodman to go back to Tennessee with him 
for a vacation. Barney’s father was still living, 
and the Louisville lawyer, whose business had 
never engrossed his time, was in the habit of 
visiting the old gentleman occasionally, when 
the peaches were ripening and the roasting ears 
were silking. Paul, having no ties of blood or 
of close friendship in Tennessee, had never re- 
turned to the State since he had left it as a 
youth, now more than ten years ago, and had 
always declined Barney’s invitation to run 
down with him to a country “ where they 
know how to make real chicken-pie and sure- 
enough corn-bread.” This summer, however, 
Paul was more amenable to reason. He ad- 
mitted that he needed just such a rest as 
Barney urged him to take. 


Across the Years 


JI 3 


His work for several months had been un- 
usually arduous. He had been trying to get 
under way a company to place on the market 
a deposit of fluor-spar in one of the river coun- 
ties of Kentucky, and he had gone through a 
hard fight. The industry was a comparatively 
new one in that part of the country, and cap- 
italists were wary of it. Nevertheless, with an 
option on the land, he applied himself to rais- 
ing the money necessary to buy it and to put 
the enterprise on foot. It was here that the 
friends he had made in his business of home- 
building came forward. That business had 
never proved very profitable to Paul, chiefly 
on account of his laxness in holding his ten- 
ants to their contracts. If they defaulted in 
their payments, it was his way to allow them 
extensions, even indefinitely, rather than en- 
force his liens on their homes. 

“ You ought to get out of that business, 
Rod,” Barney Carruthers would say to him. 
“ You ’ll never do anything for yourself in it. 
You ’re too soft-hearted. No mortal man can 
run the real estate business and the philan- 
thropy business together and make money 
out of the real estate business.” 

But Paul found that his real estate business 
8 


The Inlander 


114 

served him a good turn when he undertook 
to float the stock of his new company. Not 
all his tenants defaulted in their payments, 
and not all those who defaulted failed ulti- 
mately to redeem their contracts. Many not 
only paid for their homes, but in doing so 
formed the habit of saving and laid by snug 
little bank accounts. When Paul set about 
organizing the Ohio River Fluor-spar Com- 
pany, the small subscriptions which these men 
were eager to make to its stock, together with 
his own larger subscription and the still larger 
subscription of Drewdie Poteet, who had now 
suceeeded to his mother’s fortune, constituted 
the greater part of the capital with which the 
option was closed and active work on the new 
enterprise begun. 

Having done all there was for him to do in 
person just then, Paul found himself with a 
few weeks’ respite at the time when Barney 
Carruthers made his annual pilgrimage to Ten- 
nessee, and he decided, to Barney’s hilarious 
satisfaction, to visit with him the scenes of 
their boyhood. 

Barney Carruthers was so elated by this 
decision that he telegraphed it to Drewdie 
Poteet at St. Louis, insisting on his joining 


Across the Years 1 15 

them in Tennessee, although it was a foregone 
conclusion that Drewdie would not be able 
to spare the time to do it. Drewdie now had 
a new vocation which kept him very busy 
from May to October. His mother had died 
shortly after he had taken down those notes 
of Paul Rodman’s suggestion for a play, and 
Drewdie, coming into the property, had been 
quick to realize that the dramatist’s was not 
his true Vocation in Life. His true Vocation 
in Life was to encourage the breeding interest 
by helping to elevate the turf; and having 
invested in a racing stable, he had now reached 
St. Louis, on the “ circuit,” where, as his reply 
to Barney’s telegram amply indicated, he was 
actively engaged in encouraging the breeding 
interest and elevating the turf: — 

“ Awfully sorry. Can’t possibly get away. My 
busy season. You and Rod get down strong on 
Doublequick in handicap to-morrow. Dead to rights. 
Copper-riveted. Tapioca.” 

On the June morning when Paul Rodman 
took the southern train it was with none of 
the exhilarating anticipations with which men 
of his temperament often set out to renew the 
long-abandoned associations of their youth. 


The Inlander 


1 16 

On the contrary, in the lapses of silence between 
him and Barney Carruthers, Paul’s thoughts 
were heavy as they insistently recurred to the 
contrast between the journey he had made 
over this road more than ten years ago and 
the journey he was making over it now. Then, 
an inexperienced lad in his early twenties, life 
was before him, everything was possible, and 
the best and most beautiful were to be his. 
Now, a worldly-wise man, though not yet 
thirty-five, he knew that nothing that was best 
and most beautiful was possible for him ; that 
his return to the haunts of his boyhood was 
with the stern realization that the hopes and 
aspirations which had buoyed him forth and 
which had been the most wonderful charm of 
his boyhood, were only mockeries. In truth, 
what was there of those boyhood hopes and 
aspirations that were not better buried in the 
old family graveyard, along with the aged 
father whose death had marked the beginning 
of the new life of the son, and with the young 
mother whose desecrated portrait had marked 
the ending of all that was worth living for? 

The miles slipped away ; the wooded slopes 
vanished behind him ; the green “ barrens ” 
rolled on either side; then a river winding 


Across the Years 


1 1 7 


between swaying wheat and roistering corn. 
Everywhere the landmarks were recognizable, 
but nowhere were they the landmarks which 
had lined his way on that other journey. 
Then all were invested with the magic, the 
mystery that light the first vision outward 
bound ; now they were but dull clod, dead 
stone, sluggish water, that numbered the miles 
as he drifted, as dull as they, aimlessly back. 

It was nearing dusk when he and Barney 
reached Mavistoc. But it was not the Mavis- 
toe he had left ten years before. Much of it 
was familiar, but much of it was aggressively 
incongruous with his memory of the quiet old 
town which for generations had hardly varied 
in its physical aspect, except perhaps for a 
scar now and then left by a fire or warring 
armies, and for the growth of new rows of 
saplings into trees. 

Paul had hardly stepped from the train be- 
fore he noted that the great cottonwood that 
had stood immemorially near the station had 
disappeared, and with it the little cabin it had 
shaded, in the door of which — a hole in a 
swaying plank fence — old Juniper the shoe- 
maker, black and bent, had plied his trade and 
his tireless tongue, while Randy, his wife, sat 


The Inlander 


1 1 8 

under the tree outside and displayed for sale 
her gingerbread and fried chicken ; the family 
grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the 
family dogs and fowls, overrunning the adja- 
cent territory and wearing it smooth and hard 
with many bare feet. Old Juniper and Randy 
had been part of Paul’s childhood, and the 
distance between him and that seemed sud- 
denly and violently lengthened as he saw a 
big lumber-yard where the cottonwood and 
the cabin had stood. Further along the creek, 
which in the old days had been given over to 
the municipality’s ducks, geese, cattle, and 
washerwomen, mills now hummed and coal- 
banks stretched. The street from the station, 
which had been dedicated to dog-fennel and 
an occasional squatter, was now graded and 
gravelled, and was built up with neat cottages. 
The old corner gaslights had been replaced 
with electricity. There were an added story 
and a tower to the historic court-house. The 
little ivy-grown church that he had known best 
had been remodelled into market stalls, and 
the sleepers in the grass-grown churchyard 
adjoining had been removed elsewhere, to 
make room for the thriving innovation known 
as the “ Ten Cent Store.” The colonial 


Across the Years 1 19 

simplicity of the old Hungerford homestead, 
which was almost coeval with the birth of 
Mavistoc, and which had never been occupied 
except by some member of the family that 
had won distinction for Mavistoc, in the coun- 
cils of the State and the Nation and in the 
courts of Europe, had been wigged and rouged 
into the simpering rejuvenation of “ The Hotel 
Hungerford,” with a clerk’s desk where the 
hall had been and vociferous runners who had 
besieged Paul the moment he appeared on the 
car platform. As he drove along the principal 
street he saw that many of the houses had 
been enlarged and modernized ; yards he re- 
membered as wild with old-fashioned flowers 
were now prim with palms and ferns, and at 
the sides of two cottages where hollyhocks 
and tiger-lilies had rioted, glass conservatories 
had been built. There were new houses where 
cultivated fields had been when Paul had last 
seen the town ; most of these structures hav- 
ing discarded the plainness of their antiquated 
neighbors, many for a combination of all 
schools of architecture that promised a com- 
plicated and showy result, and some for the 
best models of urban dwellings which modern 
taste and wealth have evolved. 


I 20 


The Inlander 


“ Some of these houses along here could 
hold their own on Third Street in Louisville, 
could n’t they?” Barney Carruthers said as he 
pointed out the improvements on either hand. 
“ They have become so progressive in Mavistoc 
since you and I left that they have actually in- 
troduced coppers into circulation.” 

When they drove from the town over the 
smooth turnpike, the changes were hardly less 
conspicuous. The rail snake-fences had given 
place to plank, wire, and occasionally to stone. 
The fields which had been planted in cotton 
or turned out to broomsedge and blackberries, 
were now luxuriant in stock-peas, in grain and 
in blue grass, over which blooded cattle and 
horses browsed. Only occasionally did a patch 
of cleanly tilled cotton remind Paul that this was 
Middle Tennessee instead of Central Kentucky. 

It was certainly very different from the Ten- 
nessee he had known; and the change, how- 
ever for the better it might have been, struck 
him with a sense of personal loss. Neither 
his boyhood, nor even the land of his boy- 
hood, was left him. 

They passed the mouth of a lane that led 
away from the pike, and Barney waved his 
hand toward it. 


Across the Years 


I 2 1 


“ I reckon you recognize that,” he said. 

It was the lane that ran to the old Rodman 
place, the only home Paul had ever known. 
He could see now, against the afterglow in the 
western sky, the dark green blur of the great 
oaks and hickories under which the house 
stood ; he could see, as of old, the swallows 
wheeling above it; and a commotion in the 
branches of the big cedar told him that the 
turkeys were flying to roost in the same tree 
they had always chosen ten, twenty years ago. 

The house was invisible from the turnpike, 
but Paul’s mental image of it, at the moment, 
was vivid, and especially of the wide veranda 
on which two dreamers sat and watched the 
stars come out, — one, a white-haired old man ; 
the other, a grave-eyed boy. The man had 
died long ago, gently, contentedly, as becomes 
the ending of a beautiful old age ; and the boy, 
too, was gone, but the pathos of his going was 
far removed from the definiteness of inexorable 
death ; for it was as if the boy had been, and 
even now was, and yet was not. 

There was a tightening at his throat as Paul, 
with a strange, impersonal aloofness, contem- 
plated the picture of the boy he had been, and 
his heart welled with a tender yearning, an 


122 


The Inlander 


infinite compassion, not for himself, but for the 
boy who for the instant was very real, and yet 
vvho was no more. 

He turned away from the darkening tree- 
tops with a forced conventionality. 

“ We ’ll have to run over some day and take 
a look at the old place.” 

“ That ’s what ! ” replied Barney Carruthers. 
“ And I reckon we ’ll both know the way.” 


XII 


DIVISION VALLEY 

Stephen Carruthers, Barney’s father, was 
an old man who since the death of his wife had 
lived alone, in preference to living with his 
married children, or having them live with 
him. He was taciturn and active, always pot- 
tering at something and rarely accomplishing 
anything. He devoted his energies to trifles 
and whimsies, and directed two or three 
negroes to the same end; the result being 
that he supplied his physical wants and was 
content, while his farm went happily to weeds 
and thickets. He had very little to say to 
Barney or Paul, but it pleased him to listen 
to what they had to say, either to himself or 
to each other, provided they accompanied him 
on his rounds to the barns or the fields to 
say it. 

That was how Barney and Paul spent the 
greater part of the day following their arrival. 
The next morning old Stephen took Barney 


The Inlander 


i 24 

into Mavistoc for a consultation with a lawyer, 
and Paul lounged away the time under the 
trees till the afternoon, when he started with 
a gun to the woods of Division Valley, where, 
in the old days, he had rarely hunted squirrels 
unsuccessfully. 

Division Valley, so called because through 
it ran the creek which marked the boundaries 
between the Carruthers, Rodman, and several 
other farms, was a wild bit of woodland which, 
being subject to overflows, had never known 
the clearer’s axe. It had been the favorite 
haunt of Paul as a boy, and he had been 
familiar, as only a boy could be, with every 
tree, bowlder, and sink-hole in it, every turn 
and shoal and pool of the little stream. 

This afternoon he beat his way leisurely 
through Stephen Carruthers’ pasture, studded 
with thorn and sassafras and matted with dew- 
berries. Beyond this he crossed Stephen’s 
cornfield, and then a strip given over to briers 
and bushes. He was on the edge of Division 
Valley now, the dense woods spreading before 
him, the blue of the sky bending to the green 
of the forest, and white cirrus flakes floating 
like thistle between. Across these reaches of 
luminous blue and green came the resonant 


Division Valley 125 

calls of blackbirds, and behind, in the fields, 
a solitary meadow-lark answered with a trill 
vibrant with the pulse of summer. 

Paul came to the creek where as a boy he 
had been accustomed to cross on the stones 
when the water was low. But an uprooted 
tree bridged it now. He stepped upon its 
trunk and paused. He ought to know that 
tree. He took his bearings critically. Yes, it 
was the sweet-gum, — the biggest sweet-gum 
in the forest, — and the long breath which 
he drew across the years was laden with the 
resinous fragrance of this fallen landmark of 
his youth. He walked over it slowly, with a 
half-conscious feeling that he was profaning 
the dead. 

Idly he followed the bank of the creek. 
Here was the swimming-hole, wide and deep, 
just as he remembered it; then the swift race, 
spreading with frothy shallows; after which 
was the long stretch, waist-deep, where he and 
Barney Carruthers had always come to seine 
minnows when the elders required bait. This 
ended in the wonderful loop, where the stream 
doubled on itself for an eighth of a mile, and 
here was the sycamore whose roots on one 
side were washed by the same water which, 


The Inlander 


1 26 

after making the whole quarter-mile circuit, 
washed its roots on the other side, then to 
plunge and brawl down the rocky steep known 
as “ the falls.” And here was the widening 
bed of clean gravel and smooth limestone, over 
which the clear water spread, and slipped 
through a glade of majestic trees, the green 
sward dotted with dandelions and sorrel, and 
clusters of May-apple rising above the drifts 
of other summers’ dead leaves. 

Paul threw himself down on the curled root 
of a beech-tree, with a sigh of satisfaction as if 
it were an easy-chair to whose once abandoned 
comfort he was returning. It was yesterday, it 
seemed to him, that he had last sat here, a 
happy lad, with his back against this beech 
and his gun across his knees. Then, as now, 
the mulberry-tree beyond the elm was hung 
with pink fruit, and he had waited here the 
coming of the squirrels for their favorite deli- 
cacy. Then, as now, the June breeze lazily 
lifted the leaves of the poplar beside the mul- 
berry, and, through the sun-rifted foliage of 
the beech, the dandelions’ sprites seemed to 
flit down and dance airily around them on the 
grass. Then, too, there was the balsam of 
loam and wood and sun in his breath, while 


127 


Division Valley 

the drone of the falls, flowing like a distant 
river into the restless, restful, infinite sea of 
the forest’s mysterious undertones, soothed 
his senses with subtle harmonies. Then a 
woodpecker had tapped, tapped, on the dead 
tip of the poplar, and so distinctly was the 
sound even now a part of his sensation that 
it was with almost surprise that he looked up 
to the tip of the poplar and saw no sign of 
the bird. 

And not less distinct was the sudden revivi- 
fication now of the dream which had come to 
him here on that afternoon long ago, when 
he had yielded to the spell of the hour and 
dropped into a doze, — a dream of a brown, 
witching face that peered at him through the 
leaves, out of eyes that laughed and darkened 
with mingling gladness and tenderness; a 
hand that had been held out to him with the 
joy of one who had been waiting for him for- 
ever, with the benison of one for whom he had 
waited forever; to clasp which he had sprung 
triumphantly, to wake and find only the dande- 
lions’ sprites still dancing and the woodpecker 
still tapping. 

How well he remembered the quiver and 
ecstasy of that waking moment; the exalta- 


128 


The Inlander 


tion of the thrilling presence that lingered 
long after the dream had fled, and crowned 
him with the fulness of the blossoming future ! 
A squirrel had swung into the mulberry’s 
branches, and catching sight of the boy had 
darted to the other side of the mulberry’s 
trunk, whence it peered around warily at the 
creature who had waited to kill it. But Paul, 
smiling, had watched it with never a motion 
of his gun. He would not have harmed any 
living thing at that moment, and it was not 
long before the squirrel had given a signal of 
its own and was joined by a partner in the 
mulberry, where they regaled themselves with- 
out further fear of the wood-nymph’s mate who 
sat at the foot of the beech-tree. 

The wood-nymph’s mate had finally drawn 
his knife and laughingly cut his initials and the 
date in the smooth bark of the beech. It was 
a date worth commemorating, and he had 
underscored it with a deep line, carving op- 
posite it a similar line above which he had 
left space for other initials and another date. 
Some beautiful day, when he had found his 
wood-nymph out in the great world of men, he 
had meant to bring her here and tell her of 
his dream, when the other initials and a date 


Division Valley 129 

still more worthy of commemoration should 
be added. 

He remembered this caprice of boyish senti- 
ment now, and turned to see if the tree still 
bore the traces of it. 

Yes. There were the rude letters, P. R. t 
and the date. But over the second line he 
had cut were letters which he had never seen 
there before, — M. C. f — and a date five years 
subsequent to his own. He did not know 
who M. C. was. Perhaps she was the girl of 
his dream. He smiled as he reverted to his 
folly, and turned away with a half-amused, 
half-impatient exclamation, bringing himself 
abruptly to shake off this spell of his lost 
youth. He picked up his gun and looked 
about him for some living target. There 
were no squirrels in the mulberry, but a crow 
alighted, on the dead top of the poplar, and, 
with a folding and refolding of its wings 
three times, cocked its head to one side, 
peering toward an elm fifty feet away, and 
emitting a peculiar little call, — a cautious but 
friendly “ ca-aw ! ” of a short note followed by 
a longer. Then it flew off suddenly, making 
a wide circle of perhaps two hundred yards 
and returning to the poplar, to go through 
9 


i 3 ° 


The Inlander 


precisely the same motion of the wings and 
give the same call. Again it repeated this 
manoeuvre, and Paul fancied he heard some- 
where in the air a soft, cooing answer, that 
might have come, after all, on a stronger 
breeze from the running water. Then the 
crow discovered him and with a sharp signal 
of alarm shot away from its perch. But Paul 
was too quick for it. His gun rang out, the 
bird tumbled limply to the ground, and the 
air was pierced with an “ Oh ! ” of horror and 
indignation from a human throat. There was 
a wild commotion in the branches of the elm ; 
looking up, Paul saw a nondescript flutter of 
brown and white from the elm to the interlac- 
ing black-jack beneath it, and two seconds 
later there flamed down on him, from between 
the fork in the black-jack tree, a pair of red- 
brown eyes under a tangle of red-brown hair, 
framed by a brown and white checked sun- 
bonnet. 

“ You monster ! ” was hurled down at him 
like a veritable brand from the flaming eyes. 

Paul stood staring up in amazement at the 
odd apparition. 

“Why — what — where in the world did you 
come from? ” he laughed lamely. 


Division Valley 131 

“ You murd — oh-h-h ! ” She cut her epi- 
thets short; there was a long-drawn, diminish- 
ing exclamation of surprised recognition ; a 
longer pause while she gazed at him with 
steady eyes from which the anger slowly died. 
“ Why, it’s Mr. Paul,” she added. 

“Yes,” he replied inanely, for he had no re- 
membrance of having seen her before; “how 
do you do? ” 

The wild-strawberry lips — he decided at 
once that was the kind of lips they were — 
curved in a smile, and the sunbonnet bobbed 
amiably to him between the fork of the black- 
jack. 

“ How do you do? ” she repeated. 

Then her chin dropped into her hand and 
she studied him contemplatively. 

“ I did know you,” she said, as if to con- 
vince herself, “ as soon as I had a good look 
at you.” 

Paul thought if he could see more of her he 
might get some suggestion as to her identity. 

“Mayn’t I help you down?” he asked. 
“Or am I to come up?” 

“You are to do neither one,” she smiled, 
“ until you put down that horrid gun.” 

Paul laughed and laid his gun on the grass. 


132 


The Inlander 


“ No ! no! take it away off!” she ordered. 
“ Go and set it against the beech-tree yonder.” 

“ Your commands shall be obeyed, your 
Highness,” picking up the gun ; then with 
mock severity, “ Shoulder arms ! ” 

“ Forward, march ! ” rang at him from the 
black-jack tree. 

With his back to the black-jack, he marched 
to the beech and stood the gun against it. 
Then facing the black-jack again, he looked 
up, only to find that the sunbonnet had 
vanished. 

“ Hello ! ” he called. 

There was a ripple of laughter from the foot 
of the black-jack, and his eyes, following the 
sound, fell on the owner of the sunbonnet 
standing by the tree, while a shaking grape- 
vine that climbed to the lower branches told 
him what had happened. 

“ Well ! ” he exclaimed in his surprise. 

There was a bewitching play of blushes and 
dimples under the sunbonnet now, and Paul 
allowed his eyes to linger on it without divert- 
ing them by any other exertion, mental or 
physical. Then he demanded of them that 
suggestion which was to recall to him where 
he had seen her. But if there was any clue, 


Division Valley 133 

he inferred, it was hidden by the sunbonnet. 
All that he could be sure of was that she was 
a mere girl, with the slenderness and grace 
of a child rather than of a woman; say, 
fourteen — perhaps fifteen — years old. That 
much was indicated by the short skirt that 
barely reached to the shoe-tops, as well as 
by the exquisite freshness of so much of the 
face as was revealed by the sunbonnet. He 
had now decided that there were not only 
ripe wild strawberries, but the daintiest of 
wild strawberry blossoms, under the same 
sunbonnet. 

It was hardly more than three seconds that 
they stood confronting each other thus. Then 
he started toward her, and she met him with 
outstretched hand and unaffected friendliness 
in her greeting. 

“ I 'm ever so glad to see you back, Mr. 
Paul — Mr. Rodman,” she corrected, as he 
took her hand. “ We got a glimpse of you 
when you and Mr. Carruthers drove through 
Mavistoc the other day.” 

Paul was a little annoyed that he did not 
recognize her. But she seemed to know him 
so well, and so plainly took it for granted that 
he knew her as well, that he studiously avoided 


*34 


The Inlander 


any risk of embarrassing her, child though 
she was, by betraying his ignorance. 

“ And I ’m downright sorry,” he replied, 
“ that I displeased you so by shooting the 
crow.” 

Instantly her face clouded and her voice 
softened. 

“ Poor Nick ! ” she said. “ I must find him. 
Maybe he was only hurt.” 

“ He fell over here,” Paul answered soberly, 
leading the way toward the poplar. 

But the girl’s hope was vain. Nick was 
dead. They found him on the grass, his wings 
half outstretched, as if in benediction, over 
the earth which had been his enemy. 

Paul touched him with his foot, but the 
girl, shrinking as if a blow had been aimed at 
herself, gave a little cry of pained protest and 
sank to her knees beside the bird, stroking it 
gently. 

“ Dear Nick ! ” she murmured. “ And this 
would never have happened if he had not 
believed in me.” 

“ Really, I feel dreadfully mean about it, but 
I did n’t know he was your friend.” 

She looked up at Paul steadily, and for a 
second he was not sure that indignation was 


Division Valley 135 

not again kindling in her eyes. But it was 
with an intonation of reproach rather than 
anger that she said, — 

“You killed him just to be killing some- 
thing. That ’s the way of men.” 

Paul could not help smiling at this grave 
reproof of an unknown child. 

“ I suppose it ’s a way that was born with us, 
my dear,” he answered apologetically. 

A wave of crimson swept over her face, and 
she gazed at him curiously. Then she rose 
to her feet, the sunbonnet now concealing her 
deepened color, and walked slowly from him. 

Paul, measuring her height again, con- 
cluded that perhaps she was too tall to be 
addressed as “ my dear.” 

“ Besides,” he called to her, “ I was brought 
up to kill crows as a duty.” 

“ Have you a knife? ” 

There was something peculiar about her 
voice now. He had a suspicion that she was 
laughing. She was still walking away from 
him and she still wore that sunbonnet. 

“ Yes,” he replied. 

“ Then sharpen a big, strong stick and come 
here.” 

She stopped under the elm and waited, 


The Inlander 


136 

while he, more than willing to retrieve himself 
in her good opinion, if he had shown too little 
consideration for the dignity of her years, 
silently obeyed. 

“ Nick was born in this tree,” she said when 
Paul came up with the young hickory shoot 
which he had cut; ‘‘this would be the best 
place to bury him, don’t you think?” 

“ Oh — um — yes, why, of course.” 

“ You might dig the grave here, I believe,” 
indicating the particular spot with her toe. 

Paul went to work and gouged out what he 
considered a good enough grave for a crow. 

“ That will do very nicely,” he said, desisting. 

“ Oh, no ! It must be twice, three times as 
deep as that.” 

It was warm, and before he made it three 
times as deep he wished that he might pull off 
his coat. But he decided not to risk it, for 
she seemed taller than ever as she stood by so 
seriously and watched his labors. 

She brought Nick and laid him in the 
grave ; then she covered him with May-apple 
leaves, and replaced the earth over him gen- 
tly. As she declined Paul’s offer of assistance, 
it was his turn now to stand by and watch. 
He determined that to the end of the cere- 


Division Valley 137 

mony he, too, would be serious. Once she 
looked up at him quickly, he thought a little 
defiantly, as if she divined his effort to main- 
tain a straight face, and the glimpse he had 
of her eyes left an impression of unshed tears. 
It was a capricious little creature, he decided. 
One minute he was not sure she was not 
laughing; the next he was not sure she was 
not crying. 

When she had finished she rose and turned 
calmly to Paul. 

“ I must go now,” she said. “ Of course 
you will come over soon.” 

“ Of course ! ” He did not know why “ of 
course,” but he would make an effort at once 
to find out who she was. “ I ’m going your 
way now, if you don’t object,” he added, pick- 
ing up his gun. 

Was she blushing again? And why that 
swiftly stolen glance at her shoes? 

But she did not say she objected, and the 
two started off together. 

Before they had walked fifty yards she 
stopped in front of a little bluff. 

“ The darlings ! ” she cried, looking up at 
the wild roses growing on its ledges. “ Are n’t 
they beautiful?” 


The Inlander 


138 , 

Indeed they were ! Paul, turning his eyes 
from the bluff to the sunbonnet, decided that 
he had been wrong about the strawberry 
blossoms. They were wild roses. 

“ Wait and let me get you some,” he told her. 

“Do you think you could?” she asked in 
delight. 

“ I ’ve climbed that bluff many a time,” he 
assured her confidently. 

He scrambled up it, though it was much 
more difficult now, and he carefully chose the 
freshest and daintiest roses to be found. Then 
he scrambled down to the bushes where he 
had left the girl and his gun. 

“ Here they are,” he panted. 

There was no answer. The gun remained, 
but the girl was invisible. 

“ Hello ! ” he called out. 

She did not reply. The undergrowth was 
thick, and he could see only a few feet ahead 
of him. Beyond the bluff a path followed the 
creek and another crossed the stream. He 
took the latter, toward the Carruthers’ farm, 
but he did not come upon the girl again. 

“ The little rascal ! ” he laughed. “ She 
went as suddenly as she came.” 


XIII 


“ DONE COME HOME ” 

When Paul tried to describe her at the supper- 
table that night neither Barney nor Stephen 
Carruthers could identify her from the de- 
scription. 

“ There are flocks of children like that liv- 
ing around Division Valley, Rod,” Barney 
declared. 

“ Maybe it was one of Nelse Quigley’s 
daughters,” Stephen ventured, “ though I 
don’t reckon any of his is fourteen years old. 
He ’s got a yard full, and most of them seem 
to be about ten. Nelse’s favorite complaint is 
that all his young Quigleys are girls and all 
his young Jerseys are boys.” 

More than a week later Paul walked over to 
the farm that had once been his home. He 
had deferred this visit because the old place, 
as he remembered it, was the one remaining 
link with his youth, and he shrank a little from 
returning to it, to find, perhaps, that even that, 


The Inlander 


140 

after the changing years, existed only in his 
memory. 

When he came to the lane by which the 
house was reached from the turnpike he 
stopped to read a sign painted on a board : 

“ Private . 

Peddlers , Tramps , and Politicians Keep Out.” 

He might call this, he thought, the first of 
the innovations he was to see. Barney Car- 
ruthers had told Paul of this board ; he had 
also told him of certain queer hieroglyphics 
on the board which had been contributed by 
nomads, and which informed all other nomads 
that the warning was a good one to disregard. 
“ Cousin Jo,” the present owner of the Rod- 
man place, insisted that he was “ cousin of 
the county,” and the peddlers, tramps, and 
politicians, according to Barney, were not to 
be barred from the cousinship, but only 
laughed when they read the sign, as they 
followed the lane directly to Cousin Jo’s. 

Proceeding over the familiar path at the 
side of the dirt road, Paul soon saw that the 
“ spirit of progress,” whose evidences were so 
conspicuous along the turnpike, had not pene- 
trated the lane. Here was the group of wal- 


“ Done Come Home” 141 

nut-trees, five of them now as in the days 
when his father so often threatened to cut 
them down to make more room ; here was the 
same wild cherry in the fence corner, and 
here the undisturbed ranks of dock and 
pokeweed. 

He caught a glimpse of the house through 
the trees, and for a moment a haze hung 
before his eyes. Whatever Cousin Jo had or 
had not done, he had not “ improved ” the old 
mansion after the fashion in Mavistoc. 

As Paul turned an elbow of the lane into 
full view of the premises, his face lit with 
surprise and pleasure. In his first sweeping 
survey he did not notice a single change. 
Everything seemed just as he had last seen it, 
as if that had been days instead of years ago. 
He stopped at the gate, and before entering 
scanned every point of the dear old picture. 
There was the gravelled way, winding over the 
rolling lawn up to the long, low steps of the 
veranda, that extended the width of the house, 
the big fluted columns wreathed, as of old, with 
climbing roses. There, at each end of the 
veranda, were the luxuriant ellipsoids of trel- 
lised honeysuckle, flaunting many-hued trum- 
pets that summoned from far the winged 


142 


The Inlander 


seekers of sweets. And there, into the heart 
of the sheltering vines, was a flash of dun and 
white, and Paul knew that the mocking-birds 
still built their nests where they had built them 
year after year during all his boyhood. Not a 
spreading oak or towering hickory was miss- 
ing; and still overhanging a gable of the 
house was the great maple whose branches at 
his own window had tapped him to sleep 
many a night. In the rear the kitchen was 
partially visible, and he saw that the doorway 
was framed in Aunt Viny’s growing gourds, as 
it had been when she was the presiding genius 
of that establishment. Further back was the 
rustic sweep of the well, beyond which was the 
moss-covered spring-house, just as he had last 
seen them. 

He opened the gate and walked toward the 
wide hall-doors, which stood invitingly ajar. 
But before he reached the steps there was a 
burst of girlish laughter from some one who 
was not in sight, and in another second a mis- 
chievous puppy, shaking a checked cotton 
apron in his mouth, darted around the corner 
of the house and scampered across the lawn, 
pursued laboriously by an old negro woman, 
who almost ran against Paul before she saw him. 


“ Done Come Home” 143 

“ My Ian’ ! ” she panted, “ I did n’t know 
dey wuz vis’tors. Walk right in, suh, en I ’ll 
go fine Mahs Jo.” 

“ Howdy, Aunt Viny,” Paul smiled ; “ don’t 
you know me?” 

“ Who dat call me Aunt Viny lak dat? I 
ain’t heerd dat voice sence — lemme git a 
good look at you, chile ! ” She came nearer, 
batting her eyes. “ ’Tain’t — ’fo’ Gawd ! da ’s 
who ’t is ! ” She turned toward the house and 
cried out joyously: “Mahs Jo! Miss Madge! 
run yere quick! Yere’s Mr. Paul done come 
home ! ” 

Then, wrinkled with delight, she faced Paul 
again. “ Bless de Lawd, Mr. Paul, I gwine 
shake yo’ han’ wunst mo’ ’f I draps dead de 
nex’ bref ! ” wiping her hand on her skirt. 
“ Gwawn ’way f ’m yere, dawg ! ” 

The puppy, having dropped the apron in 
order to return and inspect the new-comer, 
was now making frantic overtures to establish 
friendly relations with him, but Aunt Viny 
pushed the dog aside and grasped Paul’s 
outstretched hand. 

“ My lan’, Mr. Paul,” she exclaimed, “ Ize 
powerful glad to set eyes on you wunst mo’ ! 
I sutny is ! ” 


£44 


The Inlander 


“ And I ’m just as glad to see you again, 
Aunt Viny,” Paul replied heartily. “ But I 
did n’t expect it. I did n’t know you were liv- 
ing here now.” 

“Who, me? Whah you ’low I wuz livin’ at, 
Mr. Paul? You done sole yo’ sheer er de ole 
place, but I ain’t nuvver sole mine. No, suh ! 
Yere I wuz bawned, en yere I gwine die, bless 
de Lawd ! ” 

Paul smiled. “ I might have known that. 
I remember you always owned the biggest 
share of the place, anyway, Aunt Viny.” 

“ Go ’long now, Mr. Paul ! ” the old woman 
laughed in a high key, swaying over till 
her hand rested on her thigh. “You ain’t 
changed a bit. You des lak you wuz when 
you useter joke en carry on scan’lous wid ole 
Viny.” 

“Aunt Viny! Oh, it ’s Mr. Rodman ! How 
do you do? ” 

The speaker was a young woman who stood 
at the corner of the house around which the 
puppy had first appeared. 

Paul lifted his hat and almost stammered, 
“ Good-morning,” although it was five o’clock 
in the afternoon. It was certainly the little 
girl he had met in Division Valley, but, with- 


“ Done Come Home ” 


T 45 

out the sunbonnet and the short skirts, a very 
different, and, coming upon him so suddenly, 
a somewhat disconcerting, person. Instead of 
fourteen, she was fully twenty — perhaps a 
year or two older. 

She started, smiling, toward him, while he 
in his astonishment stood staring at her like a 
veritable gawk. She went up to him and gave 
him her hand. 

“ I ’m so glad you have come,” she said ; 
“and Cousin Jo and Aunt Mildred will be de- 
lighted. They were wondering to-day why 
you had n’t been over.” 

“ Thank you,” he managed to say. “You’re 
very kind. I — er — intended calling before 
this, but somehow — ” 

Aunt Viny unconsciously came to his relief : 
“ He ain’t changed a bit, is he, Miss Madge, 
cep’n he ’s growed some en des natchully im- 
proved? ” 

They both laughed, and Aunt Viny started 
away. “You tek keer uv him, Miss Madge; 
I reckon I better go git my ap’on, ef dat Piff 
lef’ any uv it to git. Say, Mr. Paul,” pausing 
and turning toward him again, “do you still 
love dem same kinder biscuits you useter eat 
so many uv? ” 

io 


146 The Inlander 

“ Yes, Aunt Viny; but I don’t get any up 
where I live.” 

“ I lay you don’t ! Dem folks gotter be 
bawned ag’in ’fo’ dey kin mek dem biscuits. 
Ne’mine, Mr. Paul, I gwiner cook you ernough 
fer supper t’night to mek you feel sho you 
done got home ag’in.” 

“ Thank you, Aunt Viny, but I shall not 
have time to stay to supper to-night,” Paul 
laughed. 

“Everybody has time at Cousin Jo’s,” the 
girl interposed. “You do the cooking, Aunt 
Viny, and I ’ll answer for Mr. Rodman.” 

“ Yes, honey, I boun’ you will ! Dey ain’t 
no gittin’ roun’ her, Mr. Paul. Whut she 
done said she done said. Come on yere, Piff, 
you outdacious varmint ! ” she called to the 
dog. “Dey gotter be chickens ketched fer 
supper.” 

Paul gave the girl a frankly puzzled look. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. 
“ I did n’t know you lived here.” 

“Didn’t you?” she answered, with a sug- 
gestion of airy protest in her tone. “ I came 
here soon after you went away. Perhaps you 
never heard of it.” 

“ No, I — had n’t heard of it.’ 


“ Done Come Home ” 


H7 

They were walking toward the house, and 
the hopelessly blank expression that settled 
on Paul’s countenance caused the girl to stop 
abruptly. 

“I — don’t — believe — - you — know — who 

— I — am ! ” she said solemnly, eying him 
with amazement. “I — don’t — believe — you 

— remember — me — at — all ! ” 

He laughed weakly. “ I certainly remember 
your running away from me in Division Valley 
the other day.” 

“ But you don’t remember me before that? ” 

There was smiling confession in his eyes. It 
would have been useless now for him to try to 
dissemble further. 

“ Oh ! oh-h-h ! ” laughing faintly in mock 
dismay, though the blush which she failed to 
hide by pressing her hands to her cheeks 
showed that her agitation was not wholly 
affected. “ You did n’t know me at all that 
day in the Valley ! And I never suspected 
you did n’t, and treated you all the time in the 
friendliest way ! But you did know that I 
knew you, didn’t you? And you did know 
that I thought you knew me?” 

“ Oh, yes ; I knew that. But there is one 
excuse for my ignorance : you see you had n’t 


The Inlander 


148 

been pointed out to me shortly before in 
Mavistoc, as I had been pointed out to you.” 

“ That ’s so ! ” dwelling on the newness of 
the idea. “ And it never even occurred to 
me before.” 

They were walking again toward the house, 
and she tripped a few yards to one side to pull 
a pink from a bunch over which a humming- 
bird was poised. The bird flitted away, hardly 
more than an arm’s length, suspending itself 
in the air until she left the flowers, when it 
flew back to its spoil. To Paul it seemed that 
the bird and the girl not only understood each 
other, but that each suggested the other. 

With the same aerial grace with which she 
had left his side she returned, fluttering the 
pink to her lips. Like the bird, she seemed 
almost to suspend herself in the air as she 
suddenly paused before she reached him. 

“ The horror of it ! ” she exclaimed, with a 
recurrence of the tone of only partially affected 
concern. “ To think of being in the woods all 
the afternoon with a man who did n’t know 
me ! Why, we have n’t been introduced at 
this moment ! ” 

“ Won’t you perform that ceremony?” 

She made him a slight courtesy. 


“Done Come Home” 149 

“ Mr. Rodman, let me present you — oh, 
bother ! Paul Rodman, don’t you remember 
Madge Cabanis? ” 

“Madge Cabanis?” rubbing his chin reflec- 
tively. 

“ The little girl you used to call Chuckle- 
head? ” 

His face brightened instantly. 

“ Oh ! ” he cried. “ Doctor Cabanis’ little 
daughter? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ The little girl I used to see so often when 
I rode by to and from Mavistoc? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And the last time I saw her was the day I 
passed on my way to take the train for Louis- 
ville, and she was hanging on the gate to say 
good-bye to me ! ” 

“ She would never do it again, Mr. Paul 
Rodman ! ” 

He came toward her impulsively, his hand 
outstretched. 

“We must shake hands on this.” 

She barely brushed his hand with the tips of 
her fingers, and on the failure of his effort to 
grasp them was away, toward the house again, 
with a laugh. 


* 5 ° 


The Inlander 


“ A bird in the bush ! ” he called after her. 

“ I ’ll wait till I see if you remember me 
next time, before I shake hands with you.” 

They went into the hall, where they found 
Mrs. Cabanis — “ Aunt Mildred,” as Madge had 
called her — placidly sewing, and where they 
sat and chatted for half an hour, during which 
Paul learned that Madge Cabanis had made 
her home here since the death of her father, 
ten years before. It was a pleasant half-hour 
to Paul, with the gentle voice of Mrs. Cabanis 
and the laughter of Madge making musical 
the fitful breezes that played from the honey- 
suckles and roses through the hall. 

After that, guided by Madge, dancing now 
in front of him and now walking at his side, 
he strolled about the grounds, — stopping by 
the well to lower the creaking sweep, and 
asking permission to drink from the bucket, 
“just for the taste of it once more; ” stooping 
at the spring and breaking off a sprig of the 
aromatic mint, which he stuck in his button- 
hole ; passing through the orchard, where the 
first peaches were ripening, and insisting on 
climbing one of the trees, to see if he had 
“ forgotten how,” and to pluck from the top- 
most boughs an offering of the fruit; then 


“ Done Come Home ” 151 

idling down the elder-bordered path to the 
old Rodman graveyard ; and returning to the 
house through the woodland pasture, along 
the creek where in season the snipe and the 
silver-sides had never failed him. 

Long before they were in speaking distance 
of the house they saw Cousin Jo Cabanis 
standing on the back porch, waving a saluta- 
tion to them with his hand. Cousin Jo Ca- 
banis was Madge’s uncle, but he insisted that 
she, in common with all others who knew him, 
should call him Cousin Jo. He was not old 
enough to be anybody’s uncle, he protested, 
though he was nearer seventy than sixty; he 
proclaimed himself everybody’s Cousin Jo, 
and everybody fell readily into accepting him 
at his own valuation. Even his own children 
and grandchildren spoke to and of him as 
Cousin Jo. 

He advanced to meet Paul Rodman and 
Madge Cabanis, his gray head bare, his florid 
face beaming, his buoyant voice ringing out 
to them while they were yet a furlong away : 

“ Hello, Cousin Paul ! Well, well ! I 
thought it was high time you were turnin’ up 
at the old stampin’-ground.” 

When they met he greeted Paul in the same 


152 The Inlander 

strain and with a hand-grip which was not 
soon forgotten. 

As the three went on to the house Cousin 
Jo’s words rollicked ahead continuously: “I 
hear you ain’t a preacher to this good day, 
Cousin Paul ! Well, well, young man, do you 
know how nigh you come to bankruptin’ 
Cousin Jo Cabanis? Why, off and on when 
you were a shaver, I reckon I offered to bet 
half the folks in the county anything from a 
farm to a fiddle-string you would be a preacher, 
you had such a quiet way and such a long 
face. And all that saved me was that the 
noggin-heads would n’t bet.” 

On the porch he suddenly bent toward the 
lapel of Paul’s coat, which he drew first to his 
eyes and then to his nose. 

“Look here, young man,” he exclaimed, 
throwing his head back and directing his 
spectacles upon Paul’s amused face, “ is that 
what you do with mint in Kentucky?” 

“ Merely a fancy, Cousin Jo, for this after- 
noon only.” 

“Fancy, hey? Well, there’s plenty of pi- 
onies and such truck ’round in the front yard 
for that sort of fancy. But mint ! — Madge, 
run and fetch me the other things.” 


“Done Come Home” 153 

The other things were brought, compounded, 
and disposed of. “ And now if you don’t say 
that beats mint in your buttonhole,” Cousin 
Jo observed as he drew his bandana across 
his lips, “I’ll — I ganny! I’ll agree never 
to touch another drop of it as long as I live ! ” 

Supper soon followed, and Aunt Viny ran 
in herself two or three times to see that it 
was properly served and to make sure that 
Paul did full justice to each product of her 
art which she remembered he had been par- 
tial to as a boy. 

Afterward they sat on the veranda, Mrs. 
Cabanis in the big rocking-chair, Cousin Jo 
as loquacious as he could be while he kept 
his long cob pipe going, and Madge perched 
on the steps or flitting among the flowers with 
her waterpot. 

The saffron and rose had faded from the 
sky and the dusk had darkened to starlight 
when Paul left the old people and joined 
Madge among the geraniums. 

“ Walk with me to the gate,” he said. 
“You haven’t told me about Nick yet.” 

“No. Do you think you deserve it? May- 
be I ’ll tell you next time I see you.” 

At the gate he held out his hand. “ Good- 


J 54 


The Inlander 


night, Miss — I used to call you Chucklehead, 
but I know you better now and have a better 
name for you.” 

“ Miss Cabanis? ” she asked archly. 

“ Avice.” 

“ Why Avice? Is it a name, or what? ” 

There was a poise of her head as she 
looked up at Paul which was in itself suffi- 
cient answer, for him, of her first question. 
He replied, — 

“ 1 1 have watched you long, Avice, — 

Watched you so 
I have found your secret out ; 

And I know 

That the restless ribboned things, 

Where your slope of shoulder springs, 

Are but undeveloped wings 

That will grow.’ ” 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed gayly, “ then Avice 
is poetry ! ” 

“Yes; Avice is poetry. 

“ ‘ When you enter in a room, 

It is stirred 

With the wayward, flashing light 
Of a bird ; 

And you speak, and bring with you 
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, 

And the wind-breath and the dew, 

At a word.’ ” 


“ Done Come Home ” 


*55 


She clapped her hands. 

“ How pretty ! Was Avice a bird? ” 

“Yes. Avice was a bird. Every gesture, 
every motion and posture, were the volant 
graces of the birds ; her voice had all their 
ittle ‘ shakes ’ and ‘ stills,’ and from the tips 
of her wayward toes to the crown of her 
coquettish head she was an incarnation of 
their tricks and turns — 

“ * Just their eager, quick 

“ Airs de tete” 

All their flush and fever-heat 
When elate ; 

Every bird-like nod and beck, 

And a bird’s own curve of neck 
When she gives a little peck 

To her mate.’ ” 

“ What an exquisite creature Avice was ! ” 
she cried, with a childish wringing of her 
hands. “ But ” — abruptly changing her tone 
to one of simple dignity — " you are not to 
give me such a name.” 

“ Not the new one nor the old, either?” he 
laughed gently. 

Her eyes shone with a sweet gravity in the 
starlight. 

“ Just Miss Cabanis — to-night.” 


XIV 

THE STORY OF A BLUE-EYED CROW 

He returned one afternoon the following week, 
and they went for a walk with PifT. 

As they passed through the gate Piff, frolick- 
ing in advance, turned into the path that de- 
scended to the creek and Division Valley. 

“Wise Piff! ” Paul remarked. “ He takes it 
as a matter of course that we are going to the 
Valley.” 

“ Piff knows that there is no other walk to 
compare with it,” Miss Cabanis replied : “ he 
has been there before.” 

“ Division Valley and this farm are the only 
things around here which seem just as they 
were when I went away. I feel like thanking 
Cousin Jo Cabanis for keeping the old place 
unchanged, though I suppose it would have 
been better for him if he had caught the fever 
for improvement.” 

“ He says that what was good enough for 
Judge Sevier Rodman is good enough for 


The Story of a Blue-eyed Crow 157 

Cousin Jo Cabanis. Besides, I Ve heard him 
tell Aunt Viny that even if he wanted to make 
any changes he did n’t believe she ’d let him.” 

They chatted on till they came to the creek, 
spanned here by the trunk of an ash so slender 
that Paul resolved he would be very careful in 
leading Madge over. 

“ Oh, look ! ” she suddenly cried ; and be- 
fore he knew what she meant to do she had 
darted by him and was skimming lightly over 
the narrow log. By the time he had worked 
his own footing across, she had run to a little 
copse twenty yards away and was back by the 
side of the creek, holding up for his inspec- 
tion a sprig of something most wonderfully 
blue. 

“ Is n’t it lovely?” she exclaimed, her 
cheeks coloring and her eyes shining. “ It ’s 
the very first I Ve seen this summer ! ” 

“ Ah ! it ’s — why, it ’s closed gentian, is n’t 
it? ” he said as he came up to her. “ It’s the 
first I've seen since I left Tennessee.” 

When they reached the beech-tree under 
which Paul had awaited the squirrels and shot 
the crow, Madge sat down on the twisted root 
and he threw himself on the grass in front 
of her. 


The Inlander 


I5 S 

“ You prefer a seat at the foot of the beech 
this afternoon,” he twitted her, “ instead of in 
the branches of the black-jack — or was it 
higher still, in the elm?” 

She blushed so beautifully that he could 
hardly be sorry, though he felt he ought to be, 
that he had spoken. 

“ I thank you, Mr. Paul Rodman,” she an- 
swered in the little half-mocking, half-serious 
way which he thought became her so well ; 
“ but I don’t usually sit in the branches of 
trees, and never except when I choose my 
company especially for the occasion.” 

“ Nick, for instance,” he laughed. 

“ Always Nick — and only Nick.” 

“ I know I was very much uninvited on the 
last occasion ; but are n’t you going to tell me 
about Nick?” 

“ How can I help it after — after the way 
you found me here the other afternoon? Oh ! 
you could n’t keep me from telling you about 
Nick now? ” 

Paul liked to laugh at her; but it was a 
laugh so full of boyish comradeship and so 
genuinely keyed with tribute to her own 
charm that she did not seem to mind it. He 
laughed now, and, his elbow on the grass and 


The Story of a Blue-eyed Crow 159 

his hand supporting his head, he looked up to 
her and said : — 

“ Once upon a time — ” 

“ Once upon a time,” she took it up, her 
hands clasped around her knees, and her eyes 
now falling on Paul and now far overlooking 
him, “ ever so long ago — six, seven, maybe 
eight years — when I was a little girl, I found 
a crow’s nest in the elm-tree there, and I 
wanted, more than anything else in the world, 
to see inside it. I could n’t climb the elm-tree, 
but you can get into that from the black-jack, 
and the grape-vine made it easy to get into 
the black-jack. That’s how I saw inside the 
nest.” 

She was gazing beyond him now, and the 
light, sifting down on her through the beech 
leaves, made as delicate a play as Paul could 
wish to look upon. 

“ They were the ugliest, queerest little crea- 
tures,” she said, smiling, as her eyes met his 
again, “ and the hungriest. I came every day 
and brought all sorts of nice things to feed 
them with. The old crows made a great fuss 
about it at first, and never 1 were really recon- 
ciled to it, but I would always leave part of 
the lunch where they would find it, and they 


160 The Inlander 

got so that sometimes they would not fly 
farther away than the poplar over there when 
I went up to visit the family. The young 
birds were always glad to see me until they 
grew big enough to leave the nest ; then they 
became wild and followed their parents, — all 
but Nick. Nick was not so suspicious as the 
others; he was the last to fly, and his eyes 
were the last to turn from blue to brown.” 

“ Blue? A crow with blue eyes?” 

She surveyed him with amused astonishment. 

“ Of course ! Did n’t you know that young 
crows, until they get worldly-wise and old 
enough to take care of themselves, have blue 
eyes ? ” 

“ Not until this minute. But I believe what- 
ever you say about crows.” 

“ When Nick left the nest he would not 
avoid me entirely, like the others, but would 
return and eat what I brought him, whenever 
he saw me in the tree — You, Pifif! ” 

She ran swiftly after Pifif, who had found a 
young catbird, uncertain of its wings, and was 
chasing it from bush to bush. She came back 
with the dog following meekly. 

“ Make him lie down by you, and keep 
him out of mischief,” she ordered Paul. 


The Story of a Blue-eyed Crow 161 

“ Come here, Pifferaro, and be quiet, and 
you may hear about Nick.” 

“ There is n’t much more to tell,” Madge 
continued. “ Nick and I used to meet in the 
elm once or twice a week every summer 
until two years ago, when I went away. This 
summer I was trying to coax him back, and 
had got him to come as near as the poplar, 
when you shot him.” 

“ Poor Nick ! He was not as wise as the 
other members of the family, after all, it seems.” 

“ I was dressed as I was when you saw me 
here the other afternoon,” she added a little 
self-consciously, “ because I wanted Nick to 
recognize me. That was the way I used to 
dress when he was not afraid of me.” 

“I see now — when you were a ‘little 
girl’?” 

“ Yes. I did not expect any one to see me. 
I had never met any one in the Valley before 
but Nick.” 

She rose, and Paul again noticed the initials 
beside his own on the beech-tree. 

“ M. C. ! ” he said, with sudden animation, 
pointing to the letters. “ They are yours ! 
Did you cut them there?” 

“ Of course,” she laughed ; “ a long time 
n 


162 


The Inlander 


ago, — the first year after I came to live with 
Cousin Jo” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because you had left such a good place 
for them.” 

“ I cut mine there,” he laughed, “ to com- 
memorate a beautiful dream I had here once.” 

“What was it? Oh, tell me!” she cried 
eagerly. 

“It is n’t worth telling now. I have grown 
worldly-wise, like your crows, and know how 
to value dreams.” 

On the way back, when they saw the bluff 
where the wild roses grew they looked at each 
other and broke into simultaneous laughter 
that caused Piff to bark up at them with ener- 
getic interest. 

“ Why did you do it? ” he asked. 

“ You know very well ! ” 

“ Indeed, I don’t know at all ! ” 

“ Really? ” 

“ Really ! ” 

“ How stupid ! when I have just told you I 
was dressed only for Nick and the Valley.” 

He left her at the gate, but not before Cousin 
Jo Cabanis had walked down from the house 
and urged him to remain to supper. 


I 


The Story of a Blue-eyed Crow 163 

That invitation declined, Cousin Jo promptly 
extended another. “ Come over and go fishin’ 
with me to-morrow. If you ’re half as fond of 
it as your father was, I ’ll warrantee you some 
good spote. There ’s a fine chance of trout in 
the river this year, — more than there has 
been since the spring of ’59. Go along with 
me, and if you don’t ketch as many as you 
want to tote home I’ll agree to live on Job’s 
turkey the rest of my time.” 


XV 


MANAGER JOYCE DISTURBS A SUMMER 
HOLIDAY 

Days came and went, and many of them found 
Paul Rodman at Cousin Jo Cabanis’s. The 
old place was so home-like; Mrs. Cabanis was 
so restful; Cousin Jo was so jolly; Aunt 
Viny was so palatably resourceful; Piff 
was so genuinely hospitable; while Madge, 
whether she appeared to him as child or 
woman, was so divertingly companionable 
that he was well satisfied to spend his vacation 
thus. 

In truth, it was more a vacation than he had 
ever known since he had left the country for 
the town. It was rest, — not only from work 
and friction and social shams, but rest from 
thought and self. There was for him no more 
reason why he should think or worry than 
there was for Piff in the sun, for the butterflies 
among the honeysuckles, or for Madge among 
the rose-bushes, and he yielded to the tranquil- 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 165 

lizing influences of the hour with a passivity 
that was in itself, for the time, an elimina- 
tion from his mind of everything foreign to 
those influences. And those influences meant 
* vacuity, serenity, content. 

Perhaps he saw more of Cousin Jo Cabanis 
than he saw of the others — with the exception 
of Pifif. He was amused by Cousin Jo’s yarns, 
which, owing chiefly to the fact that his wife 
and niece had heard them often before, were 
usually reserved for opportunities when the 
ladies were not present. Moreover, there was 
a strong bond of fellowship between the two 
men in their fondness for fishing; and prob- 
ably what most confirmed Cousin Jo’s lik- 
ing for Paul was the cheerful patience with 
which he stuck by the old angler during the 
long hours when the fish would not bite, and 
his willingness when hooks and lines became 
entangled among roots or rocks, or when other 
trying incidents of a fisherman’s luck were 
encountered, to let Cousin Jo do all the fum- 
ing and swearing. 

“The fun of fishin’,” explained Cousin Jo 
on a day that he and Paul left the river 
without having had even a nibble, “ ain’t 
always in what you ketch ; it ’s a good deal 


i66 


The Inlander 


in what you ’re expectin’ to ketch. You ’d soon 
get tired of it if you pulled out fish as fast as 
you could throw your line in the water. The 
good of it is that you never know what ’s goin’ 
to happen and when it ’s goin’ to happen, or 
if it ain’t goin’ to happen at all. Even after 
you ’ve hooked your fish you don’t know for 
certain whether you ’re goin’ to land him, or 
just how big he is, or frequently what he is. 
If you could see everything that was takin’ 
place under the water, fishin’ would n’t be half 
the spote it is. All you ought to see is a flash 
of your trout now and then as he flirts up out 
of the water. It ’s somethin’ like seein’ just a 
flash of a likely ankle.” 

That was a hard season on the bass in the 
river near by. Few were the mornings which 
Cousin Jo and Paul did not devote to their 
reels. Sometimes Barney Carruthers joined 
them, and less frequently Madge Cabanis, 
when her earnest but erratic efforts to manage 
a rod and line always provoked from Cousin 
Jo lectures on the piscatorial art and the inad- 
equacy of the female mind to comprehend its 
rudimentary principles. 

“ There are three things in the world a 
good deal alike,” he would say, after he had 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 167 

straightened out Madge’s tackle and returned 
to his own poles, — “ fish and women and 
razors. You never know what they are goin’ 
to do or what they ain’t goin’ to do. And a 
fish would be as handy with a razor as a 
woman is with a fish. There are some things 
a woman just can’t natchully do; and one of 
them is fishin’ and another is throwin’ a rock. 
If she could do the last any better than she 
can the first, I ’d advise you, Madge, to give 
up hooks and lines and try throwin’ rocks at 
the fish. Maybe you might some time or 
other fetch one that way. There you go, now, 
slashin’ your pole like you were fightin’ off 
yellow-jackets, and larrupin’ your line as if 
you had to lasso a fish like a buffalo. Stop ! 
What are you tryin’ to do ? If you can’t learn 
to cast a line any better than that, it would 
save wear and tear and danger to surroundin’ 
life and limb if you ’d put your hook and 
line into your apron and just spill them into 
the water. Whenever you ketch a fish by any 
such didos as yours, I ’ll agree to dip the river 
dry so you can pick up the others with a pair 
of tongs.” 

Nevertheless Madge did succeed eventually 
in catching a fish, which she landed in the 


1 68 


The Inlander 


branches of a sycamore, dropping her rod in a 
panic, and scudding precipitately from beneath 
the tree. This was bad enough in the eyes of 
Cousin Jo, but when she insisted that the fish 
should be put back into the river, and when 
Paul Rodman actually complied with her 
appeals on that point, the old gentleman gave 
it up and lectured her no more. 

Paul drifted on in this way more than a 
month before anything happened to disturb 
the smooth current of his course. 

He had gone over to the Cabanis’s rather 
early one morning and found Madge on the 
veranda with a letter in her lap. 

“ Oh, ” she cried, as he sat down beside her, 
“ I must tell you my good news. Mr. Joyce 
offers me an increase of salary for next season.” 
“ Salary ! ” in astonishment. “ What J oyce ? ” 
“ Why, Mr. Archibald Joyce ! ” 

“ Not — you don’t mean Joyce, the theatri- 
cal manager?” 

“ Of course ! ” she laughed. “ Did you 
think I could mean any one else? ” 

“ But — I don’t understand. Why is he 
presuming to offer you a salary? Surely the 
fellow is not trying to get you to go on the 
stage ? ” 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 169 

There was a look on Paul’s face suggestive 
of the one which had settled on it when he 
threw Judd Oxnard from the car. 

It was between amusement and surprise 
that Madge answered, — 

“ He ’s trying to get me to stay on the stage. 
Really, you don’t dare tell me, Mr. Paul Rod- 
man, that you did n’t know I was already a 
celebrated actress?” 

“ You — Madge — an actress ! Good — 
oh ! come, now ; you are making game of me 
again ! ” 

“You didn’t know it?” she laughed in 
feigned despair. “ And I have been on the 
stage two whole seasons ! Why, once a paper 
in Philadelphia gave me three full lines; and 
last spring, in Buffalo, when Florence Falk 
was ill a week, Mr. Joyce let me play Babette , 
and some of the papers gave me, oh, that 
much ! ” measuring on her finger. 

Paul sat gazing blankly out over the lawn. 
It had been years since he had received such a 
shock — since he thought he could receive 
such a shock. 

Finally he turned to her and forced himself 
to ask, — 

“ Do you like it? ” 


I JO 


The Inlander 


“ The stage? ” 

“ Yes.” 

She was very serious now as she looked at 
him. 

“ I hate it.” 

Paul did not know how his drawn face 
relaxed. “ Then why did you undertake 
it?” 

“ Because,” she replied, with a grave candor 
that was new to him, “ I wanted to do some- 
thing — to be independent. A friend of my 
father’s got Mr. Joyce to give me a chance, 
and I was very glad to try it.” 

“ And — with what success?” he asked, in a 
slightly constrained manner. 

“ Not dazzling,” she smiled. “ I had only 
very small parts except the week when I took 
Miss Falk’s place. I seemed to please Mr. 
Joyce as Babette ; but that was because Babette 
suits me so well. It is not likely I shall ever 
amount to anything as an actress, unless in 
something like Babette B 

Paul, too, was smiling now. “ I don’t think 
you would have to act much to make a perfect 
Babette. You would only have to be yourself. 
But how do you expect to do much on the 
stage if, as you say, you hate it?” 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 171 

“I don’t expect to do much; but I suppose 
I can do as well as I could at anything else. 
It is not really that I hate the work itself, — 
only the disagreeable things that go with it.” 

“ Yes, I can believe it ! ” Paul said as he rose. 
The thought of such a girl being subjected to 
those things stirred in him a deep and sullen 
spirit of revolt. “ Am I to ask you whether 
you intend to accept Joyce’s offer? ” 

“ I cannot decide for a month or two yet. 
I shall remain with Aunt Mildred for the 
present, unless one of her married daughters 
comes to live with her. Her health has not 
been very good lately.” 

Paul found Cousin Jo Cabanis sitting in 
his shirt-sleeves, under the trees, strapping a 
razor and issuing loud orders to various little 
negroes to bring him hot water, paper, and 
towels. 

“ Hello, Cousin Paul ! ” he said heartily. 
“ You see I ’m a little behind with my shavin’ 
this mornin’ — You, Ulysses! fetch another 
chair out here right away ! — It only goes to 
prove what I ’ve told you about razors. They 
are all of the feminine gender. Now, that one 
with the tortoise handle there was as sweet as 
a song yesterday mornin’, and to-day she pulls 


The Inlander 


172 

and scratches like a wild-cat. This one I ’m 
at work on is a love when she don’t sulk, but 
when she does you may grind her and hone 
her and strap her by the hour and she only 
gets sulkier. Then if you throw her away in 
disgust and pick her up a day or two later, 
maybe she will have changed her mind alto- 
gether and behave so beautifully that you ’ll 
wish there was nothin’ else to do but shave. 
Maybe she will and maybe she won’t. You 
never know till you try her. I reckon a man 
that shaves right spends enough time coaxin’ 
and humorin’ his razors to run most any ordi- 
nary business. I s’pose I ’d ’a’ made many a 
better crop if I ’d put the time on it that I ’ve 
put on these razors. But a man who shaves 
has got to get along with razors somehow, and, 
what ’s more, he ’s got to do it every day. I 
may have let the weeds grow in my fields, 
Cousin Paul, and I may have done many other 
things that a good farmer ought n’t ’a’ done, 
but I can say that nevertheless and notwith- 
standin’ the contrariness of razors, there have 
been mighty few days since I married that I 
did n’t manage to begin and finish shavin’ 
somewhere between sun-up and sun-down. 
When it comes to lettin’ the grass grow under 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 173 

your feet or lettin’ the beard grow on your 
face, Cousin Jo Cabanis will put up with the 
grass every time.” 

He ran on in this strain until Paul, getting 
up to go, found an opportunity to say, — 

“ I have been talking to Miss Madge this 
morning about the stage. Do you encourage 
that notion of hers?” 

“ Encourage? ” Cousin Jo’s emission of the 
word was so cheerfully explosive that it caused 
Piff to awaken from a doze with a sharp bark. 
‘‘Young man, you ought to know me better! 
I put my foot down on the whole project at 
the start; but what good did it do? Madge 
was of age and I could n’t stop her. Would you 
know how to stop her if she had made up her 
mind to do a thing, Cousin Paul? She took it 
into her head that she must support herself; 
pay her board and all that — the idea of your 
own kinfolks payin’ you board ! — and there 
was no doin’ anything with her. She was as 
contrary as any razor in the lot. See here, 
you ain’t goin’ already. You ain’t more’n got 
here. Sit down and wait till I get through 
this job, and we ’ll slip down to the river and 
try Sanborn’s Bend.” 

“ Thank you, Cousin Jo; but I ’m not in the 


*74 


The Inlander 


humor for fishing to-day. I ’ll come over again 
soon and we ’ll give the Bend a trial.” 

He walked back slowly through the lane 
into the Carruthers fields, his eyes thought- 
fully at his feet. Something — his lazy holi- 
day, the summer itself — seemed to have ended 
suddenly. He had been abruptly jolted back 
into his world. He had not been dreaming 
again during these idle weeks, as in his 
boyhood, but here, in these haunts of his 
boyhood, he had been resting in the sun- 
light, away from the shadow of his shattered 
dreams. He had belonged to this peaceful 
summer, as Pifif and Cousin Jo and Madge 
Cabanis belonged to it. And now the best 
of it was gone in an hour. No; not that; 
Madge Cabanis was not gone. Was it not 
worse than that; for had he not merely dis- 
covered that she had not existed? Had she 
not been another figment of his fancy, of his 
ignorance? He had believed her a simple 
child of the woods, untouched by the outer 
world; a boy in comradeship and innocent 
freedom; a maid in delicacy, caprice, and 
elusiveness. Now he knew her to have spent 
two years on the stage, that most trying school 
of sophistication, which seeks out the dross in 


Joyce Disturbs a Holiday 175 

every woman’s heart, and even if that heart be 
all gold, yet dims its lustre with calumny. He 
threw out his hands with a deep exclamation 
of revulsion from the thought of this young 
girl being subjected to such an ordeal; and 
for several days afterward the wave of revulsion 
returned at intervals as the thought recurred. 

For, after all, — after all his prejudices against 
the influences of the stage as a vocation, after 
all his reawakened distrust of his attitude tow- 
ard woman, — the thought of Madge Cabanis 
as an actress was only an occasional recur- 
rence; his ordinary and involuntary thought 
of her being of the girl he and Nick had 
known in Division Valley, who provoked the 
mirth and the reprobation of Cousin Jo the 
fisherman, who teased Aunt Viny to proud 
“ ’straction,” mothered Mrs. Cabanis, romped 
with Pifif, and nursed her flowers in the 
twilight. 

But with the recurrent thought of the actress 
there sometimes came the stinging self-reproach 
of a fleeting consciousness that he caught him- 
self studying her, now and then, with the 
object of noting whether there were in the 
country girl any trace of the actress. 


XVI 


THE WHIPPOORWILL 

THESE self-reproachful moments, which did 
more than anything else, except his first knowl- 
edge of Madge’s connection with the stage, to 
disturb the tranquillity of his summer, grew 
rarer as the weeks passed ; for it was impossible 
to be with this girl day after day at her own 
home and escape the conviction that she was 
as genuine as the life of the woods and fields 
of which she was a part. 

Thus it was that at the close of an August 
day Madge Cabanis, the actress, whom he had 
never known, had faded for the time into the 
vagueness of a past illusion, and only Madge 
Cabanis, the girl he knew, was a vital presence. 
They were sitting on the veranda, he on a step 
below her, and she leaning against one of the 
pillars. Their talk had been fitful, neither 
seeming to think it worth while to break the 
intervening silences. As he had come to know 
her better he had found that, among all her vari- 


The Whippoorwill 1 77 

able moods, she was never more interesting to 
him, and never quite so paradoxical, as she 
was when, nestled in some quiet corner, as 
now, her head no longer nodded emphasis 
to her chatter and an unwonted calm rested 
on her face. At such times Paul, looking into 
the soft shadows that darkened her eyes, felt 
that these sunny months of his holiday had not 
revealed to him all that Madge Cabanis was, 
or would be. 

But he would quickly brush aside such re- 
flections and speculations. He preferred to 
regard Madge simply as a harmonious part of 
this pastoral summer. He liked her as she 
appeared to him ; he did not wish to think of 
her as she might be or would be. In fact, he 
did not wish to think of her at all. That was 
one reason why it was so pleasant to be with 
Madge. Even a man who professed to have 
a “ philosophy,” and who set himself to live 
according to its canons, need not trouble him- 
self to drop a single plummet of thought and 
v square himself with its line in his association 
with her. One could enjoy the presence of 
Madge Cabanis with the exertion of no more 
subjective energy than was required to enjoy 
the blowing of the breeze or the shining of the 
12 


The Inlander 


178 

sun. With these, she had helped to make 
idyllic these summer days which had been 
to him so much like a brief renewal of his 
boyhood. These days would not last long, 
and while he could he would blot out all his 
past that had not been spent on this old 
farm and all his future that was to be spent 
elsewhere. 

But — fatal fatuity of a mind which arro- 
gates to itself a philosophy — it did not occur 
to Paul that in this very approach to a re- 
newal of his early youth lay the chief danger 
to that precious philosophy which he had con- 
structed for himself on the wreck of his 
youthful air-castles. And if that philosophy 
was what he needed for his self-protection, 
never did he need it more than at this hour 
when the tide that bore him back to his 
boyhood was strongest. Madge was so ex- 
quisitely lovely in this rare, gentle mood; 
there was something about her which com- 
pelled and confined his consentience to her; 
the very silence between them seemed, elo- 
quent of her, not merely as she had been, 
but as she might be and as she would be. 
Surely it is not through the eyes of his boy- 
hood that he should look upon her, unless 


The Whippoorwill 179 

he would surrender the “ wisdom ” of his 
manhood. 

And at this moment all his environments 
tended but to strengthen this tide. They 
impressed him with a vague conviction, as 
he turned from Madge to the scene before 
him, that this was only one of the many even- 
ings, exactly like all the others except for 
her presence, when he had lounged on these 
steps and watched the day die out. The 
sun had just sunk from sight, leaving, as 
of old, the western sky aglow and the eastern 
hills dim, purpling billows. Nearer and south- 
ward, as of old, the mists from the winding 
creek lifted slowly and hung above Division 
Valley. Now, as then, the forest trees on the 
lawn loomed in tranced stillness, the shadows 
of the twilight drawn into the deepening green 
of their foliage, while in the sky beyond them 
remained a paler green, luminously pure, merg- 
ing above to yet paler blue, against which 
swallows skimmed swiftly and a night-hawk 
swept his errant course and rang his resonant 
refrain. The all-pervading silence was inten- 
sified by the rasp and drone of the summer 
insects from leaf and grass. Up the lane 
tinkled faintly the chains of the plough-horses 


i8o 


The Inlander 


returning home ; while beyond the barn, as 
she called the cows, rose and sank the musi- 
cal voice of a negro as softly and rhythmically 
as a distance-subdued yodel. The insidious 
odors which the flowers exhaled seemed min- 
gled with evanescent aromas from far, ploughed 
fields; the moon rested like a crescent crown 
above the great maple-tree, and the fire-flies, 
one by one, drifted up from the sward and 
donned her golden colors in the dusk. 

The tide was full; Paul Rodman was a boy 
again, sitting on the old veranda in the even- 
ing and dreaming his dreams of love and 
woman. And here at his side were both love 
and woman — and a woman sweet and spotless 
as any born of dreams. Almost without realiz- 
ing what he was doing, except that he was 
obeying the dictates of all that was in him 
worthy of obedience, he reached out and took 
her hand. 

He felt it tremble in his clasp, and saw the 
long lashes quiver sensitively over the startled 
questioning of her eyes. 

“ Madge,” he said with infinite tenderness, 
“ Madge — ” 

Just then across the fields floated to him 
the clear, reed notes of a whippoorwill. 


The Whippoorwill 1 8 1 

“ I — ” Paul continued, his voice abruptly- 
hardening and his eyes fixed on the dim 
thicket whence those notes were sounding — 
“I am — going away to-morrow, and must 
say good-bye.” 

Both rose as he spoke. 

“ Good-bye,” low and precarious, was all 
that she trusted herself to answer; and after 
a few awkward commonplaces which he forced 
himself to utter, he went to find Mrs. Cabanis 
and Cousin Jo, leaving Madge standing on the 
porch, as white and unreal as if she were a 
wraith of the mists that hung above Division 
Valley. 

For the call of the whippoorwill that had 
broken in on Paul had come to him, not from 
the thicket across the fields, but from a brazen 
clock that had stood one night in a Louisville 
shop-window. 


XVII 


COLLAPSE OF A PHILOSOPHY 

He returned to Louisville next day, feeling 
that he was a coward, and that it was impos- 
sible that he should not be a coward. It was 
himself, not Madge Cabanis, that he doubted : 
he would have staked his life on her — if he 
had not long before staked and lost all that 
could be in a man’s life worth offering to a 
woman. He had nothing left but cowardice. 

When he reached the city to which he had 
journeyed with so much hope years before, it 
was with a sentiment akin to loathing that he 
stepped into its streets. If the spirit of sel- 
fishness which is always so apparent to the 
superficial observer of urban conditions had 
been a source of disillusion on his first arrival 
in Louisville, it was now a source of self-dis- 
gust ; for he was now a part of the life of this 
city, and, what was worse, he was fit for no 
other life. And yet he was not even fit for 
that, he told himself. He could not shut his 


Collapse of a Philosophy 183 

eyes and accept it as he found it ; while, keep- 
ing them open, he could not escape seeing, in 
his own untrustworthy perspectives, abnormal 
proportions of that side of it which repelled 
him. 

He decided, after remaining in Louisville a 
week, that for a time at least he would aban- 
don all effort to resume his customary business 
and social relations. If he had not gone 
mooning off to his old home in Tennessee, 
it would have been practicable enough, he 
thought, to continue, as he had done for years, 
holding himself free from all temptations to 
forget his past or to deviate from the path 
which he had marked out for his future. But 
now he chafed with restlessness and a new 
discontent. He left town and went to his 
prospective fluor-spar mines. He was not 
needed there; yet he remained a fortnight, 
in sheer determination to occupy himself. 

Suddenly he started North, stopping for a 
day or two in Chicago, which had usually been 
a divertisement to him. But now the jostling 
streets jarred on him ; the beautiful parks and 
boulevards were meretricious mockeries ; while 
the great lake, which in his eyes was the one 
honest and pure thing about the city, seemed 


The Inlander 


184 

to fret in ceaseless unrest, as if against some 
mighty leash that restrained it from leaping 
forward and blotting out the magnificent dese- 
cration which impious greed had erected on 
its shores. 

Late one night, as he was on the point of 
going on to Canada, he was caught by a let- 
ter from Barney Carruthers in Louisville, which 
closed with this paragraph : — 

“ Father sends me some bad news about our 
friends across the pike. He writes, 4 1 have just 
heard that Miss Cabanis is so ill there is no chance 
for her to live another twenty-four hours/ Awful, 
ain’t it? She was such a jolly little thing, and so 
full of life.” 

Never before had Paul known what crushing 
anguish a human being could sustain. Once 
he had passed through a terrible crisis, which 
had affected him more profoundly than it would 
have affected most men ; but in that case he 
had suffered through no fault of his own, from 
a wrong inflicted on him ; not for another, 
from a wrong inflicted by himself. 

Not until now had he fully realized the 
depth of his love . for Madge Cabanis ; and 
in the light of such realization all the barriers 


Collapse of a Philosophy 185 

which he had erected against that love ap- 
peared absurdly trivial and inexpressibly 
mean. If Madge was dead, then not only 
had he spurned, by his pusillanimous con- 
duct, the best thing which a man’s heart 
could crave and which the world could give 
him, but he feared that he was guilty of her 
murder. 

Was she dead? Barney Carruthers’ letter 
was five days old, having been forwarded from 
the mines. Stephen Carruthers’ letter must 
be at least a day older than Barney’s, and 
Stephen Carruthers had written that she could 
not live twenty-four hours. Paul took out his 
watch and stared at it blankly ; he could not 
start South for hours yet. He moved across 
the lobby of the hotel toward the telegraph 
office, but stopped before he reached it. A 
message could not be delivered in the country 
and be answered before he left Chicago, even 
if the telegraph office at Mavistoc were not, 
as he knew, closed until morning. All he 
could do was to telegraph Barney Carruthers. 

Then he went to his room like a bewildered 
animal to its hole, and tried to think, — to 
reason the possibility of Madge’s recovery 
into a probability. But it was futile. His 


1 86 The Inlander 

agony and remorse benumbed his brain to all 
else. 

He descended to the lobby again, pacing the 
tiles until Barney Carruthers’ answer came. He 
sat down, crushing the envelope in his hand 
before he brought himself to open it. But 
Barney had no later news than he had written. 
He had heard nothing from Tennessee since 
the arrival of his father’s letter. 

A sleepless night; a long ride to Louisville 
next day; another interminable night, and 
Paul Rodman was at last in Nashville. He 
reached Mavistoc in the afternoon, going di- 
rectly from the train to a livery stable, where 
he ordered a horse. 

He did not inquire of any one concerning 
Madge Cabanis. He dreaded definite infor- 
mation, now that he was where he might per- 
haps obtain it. Besides, he shrank from even 
mentioning the name of Madge now to a 
stranger or to a casual acquaintance. 

While he waited for his horse to be saddled, 
a trim drummer drove up and as he alighted 
asked the proprietor of the stable the state of 
business. 

“ Mighty slow,” was the jocular response. 
“ Ain’t much goin’ on here lately ’cep’ fun’als. 


Collapse of a Philosophy 187 

If ’t wan’t for fun’als and drummers I might as 
well shut up shop for a while, I reckon.” 

“ Flush times in the mortuary industry, eh? ” 
inquired the drummer. 

“ Heh? ” 

“Folks kickin’ the bucket around here, are 
they?” 

“ Everybody dyin’, ’pears like, — specially if 
they ain’t able to pay their fun’al hack bills. 
Been mo’ sickness in this part of the country 
the las’ mont’ than there has been the las’ 
twenty year befo’.” 

Paul mounted his horse and turned out the 
familiar pike once more, every step of the 
animal being cumulative torture to him as it 
bore him to the certainty he longed yet feared 
to know. 

As he passed the house where Madge 
Cabanis had lived as a little girl, with the 
sagging gate on which she had swung to say 
good-bye to him when he had first left Tennes- 
see, Paul drew his hat over his eyes and shook 
his horse into a brisker canter. 

Halfway along the lane he pulled up the 
horse sharply at sight of Aunt Viny and Piff 
a hundred yards ahead of him. 

The certainty now was nearer than he had 


1 88 


The Inlander 


expected, and for an instant he was impelled 
to jerk his horse out of sight behind a clump 
of bushes. 

But he was not so weak as that. Instead, 
his face grim and his heart pounding, he urged 
the horse rapidly onward. 

Pifif soon discovered him and rushed up with 
joyous contortions and yelpings to greet 
him. 

Aunt Viny stood in the road, with jaw 
dropped and eyes whitening, as she waited his 
coming. 

“ My lamb of life ! ” she cried as he rode 
up. “ Is dish-yere you, Mr. Paul, er is you 
des stepped down offn a tombstone?” 

“Howdy, Aunt Viny?” he said quickly, as 
he stopped. “ How are you all? ” 

“We’s all des toler’ble, Mr. Paul, ’cep’n’ 
Miss Mildred. She been mighty nigh dead, 
but she peartnin’ up ev’y day now, en dis 
mawnin she set up a liT spell.” 

He pressed the horse between his knees in 
such a vice that it sprang forward, only to be 
pulled back on its haunches as suddenly. 

“Miss Mildred?” he asked, his breath stop- 
ping and his voice constricted. “ Has Mrs. 
Cabanis been ill?” 


Collapse of a Philosophy 189 

“ Lawd, yes, Mr. Paul ; ain’t you done heerd 
dat befo’? ” 

“And nobody else — Mr. Cabanis and Miss 
Madge — they have been well ? ” 

“ Dey sutny has, bless Gawd ! Ef dey 
hadn’ ’a’ been we nuvver could ’a’ kep’ Miss 
Mildred’s bref in her body.” 

Paul was leaning low over his horse now, 
gently stroking Piff, who stood on his hind 
feet to reach him. The warm blood was surg- 
ing into his face once more, and there was a 
moisture in his eyes which only Piff might 
have seen. 

“ Well, I must get on, Aunt Viny ! ” he ex- 
claimed as he galloped off with an abruptness 
that caused her to call out a warning to “ be 
keerful wid dat fool hawss.” 

When he dismounted before the house, it 
was dusk. The mists hung over Division Val- 
ley, the moon rested over the maple-tree, and 
a whippoorwill was whistling across the fields. 

He passed rapidly through the gate and 
up the walk. In the gathering twilight he 
could see a filmy figure in white standing 
at the top of the veranda steps. Another 
moment, and his straining eyes flashed with a 
sudden joy. He held out his arms to her as, 


190 The Inlander 

with his gaze fixed on her pale face, he strode 
up the steps. 

“ Madge ! ” he exclaimed, and she was 
clasped to his breast, while his swift kisses 
fell on her hair. 


XVIII 


A SLUMP IN FLUOR-SPAR 

They were married within a month. 

In Louisville they lived, that fall and the 
following winter, at a hotel. Just before the 
wedding Paul had bought a house, the one house 
in the city he longed for, but he could not get 
possession until the first of the year. He had 
not mentioned it to Madge, and thinking to 
surprise her, he asked her, early in January, 
if she would not go house-hunting with him. 

“Why?” she inquired, without much inter- 
est. “ You are not tired of the hotel already? 
It is so convenient and comfortable, and we 
see so many nice people here.” 

This, for the moment, rather upset him. 
Madge, in the flush of excitement in which 
she had been since she left Tennessee, had 
not questioned him pointedly concerning his 
plans, and he had avoided reference to them, 
in order not to invite any such questioning 
before he was ready with his surprise. But 


192 


The Inlander 


the thought had never entered his mind that 
Madge expected or cared to live permanently 
in a hotel. He had looked forward to his 
married life as the beginning of his home life, 
and he had become so accustomed to the idea 
of quitting hotels as one of the happy results 
of marriage that it had not occurred to him 
his wife might have different views on that 
point. So it was with an effort to repress any 
evidence of disappointment due to Madge's 
reception of his proposition that he replied 
to her, — 

“ But would n’t you like a convenient and 
comfortable house better ? ” 

“ Oh, you must n’t think of going to all that 
trouble for me,” prinking before the mirror. 
“How do you like my hair done up in this 
style, Paul ? ” 

“Your hair is always beautiful. But — I 
know of a house that might please you. Sup- 
pose we go and look at it to-morrow? ” 

“ Oh, don’t bother about houses, dear ! 
I ’m bother enough to you already ! ” airily 
touching her cheek to his for a second, then 
turning away and beginning to draw on her 
gloves. “ Hurry now, Paul, or we shall be 
late for the opera.” 


A Slump in Fluor-spar 193 

Paul said no more. It was the end, for a 
time, of his domestic plans. He knew that 
if he told Madge of the house he had bought, 
she would readily adapt her own preferences 
to his, but her chance words had disclosed to 
him that her preference was the hotel at pres- 
ent, and against that disclosure his own incli- 
nations weighed nothing with him. So he 
leased the house next day to Jack Fordham. 

It was a busy fall and winter for Paul. His 
new company had been organized and the 
fluor-spar mines were under way, but the pre- 
liminary work had all devolved on him. There 
was, of course, a board of directors, but, like 
most directors, they were little more than 
dummies. Paul was not only the president 
of the company, but he was the manager 
and treasurer. His assistant in the Louis- 
ville office was Drewdie Poteet, whom Paul 
had made secretary. Drewdie’s career as an 
encourager of the breeding interest through 
the instrumentality of a racing stable, at the 
head of which was the redoubtable Double- 
quick, had completely collapsed, swallowing up 
in the wreck all of Drewdie’s fortune except 
that which he had invested in Fluor-spar 
stock, and he was now hard at work under 
13 


194 The Inlander 

Paul trying to master the mysteries of book- 
keeping. 

With Paul’s persistent promotion and ener- 
getic management the Ohio River Fluor-spar 
Company had, in the public estimation, now 
passed beyond the stage of a doubtful experi- 
ment to that of “ a good thing.” It was al- 
ready on a paying basis. The stock, which 
had been issued at par, was a favorite in the 
local market, and had gone up as high as 130. 
In one week, however, early in April it had 
sagged steadily until it reached 117. This 
worried Paul no little, as there was no apparent 
cause for the decline, and other active local 
stocks were either holding their own, or ad- 
vancing. He was worried all the more when, 
after diligent investigation, he concluded that 
the decline was due to what seemed to be 
systematic efforts to misrepresent the credit 
and condition of his company. 

But at the end of a particularly busy day, as 
he sat alone in his office, he felt that he had 
solved the mystery of the slump in Fluor- 
spar stock. He had traced two of the slander- 
ous rumors against the company to Judd 
Oxnard, and he knew that Oxnard’s brokers 
that day had orders to buy the stock at 1 1 5. 


A Slump in Fluor-spar 195 

Furthermore, nearly a year before, Paul had 
borrowed $12,000 for his company, securing 
it with a mortgage to a local title company, 
and the title company, as was its practice, had 
peddled out bonds against this, and Oxnard 
had bought the whole lot. Paul had expected 
to renew this note, but recently he had learned 
through the title company that its “ client ” 
would insist on payment in full at maturity, or 
proceed to collect by foreclosure. Already 
one of the rumors which had depressed the 
stock was that the Fluor-spar Company would 
default on its note and be sold out under the 
hammer. Paul now understood this rumor. 
In order to buy Fluor-spar stock for less than 
its value — perhaps to get control of the com- 
pany — Judd Oxnard was simply employing 
the methods that are resorted to almost any 
fine day by highly respectable “bears” on 
Wall Street. 

Now that he knew what he had to meet, Paul 
worried no longer for the Fluor-spar stock- 
holders, most of whom held small amounts 
and were therefore especially uneasy. “ Go 
home,” he said to them, that afternoon, when 
they came to him for advice, “and pay no 
attention to these quotations. They are made 


The Inlander 


196 

by men who want to frighten you out of your 
stock. It is worth more than it ever was.” 

Only that day he had got the money together 
to pay Oxnard’s note, but as it would not be due 
until six weeks later he had put the fund into 
United States unregistered bonds, which, in 
addition to the item of interest, promised a 
profit in advancing market value. These had 
been entered on Drewdie Poteet’s books, but, 
though received after banking hours, had not 
been placed in the little safe in which Drewdie 
locked his books at night. That safe was open 
most of the day, and Paul had taken the bonds 
and deposited them in his personal box in a 
vault, having just returned from the mission as 
he sat in his office and pondered his plans for 
checkmating Oxnard’s game against the Fluor- 
spar stockholders. 

He remained at his office later than usual. 
In response to a telegram, he expected to take 
anight train for New York; there was some 
writing to do, and Drewdie Poteet’s books 
were to be looked over. He wished to get all 
the work out of the way, that he might spend 
the hours before train time with Madge. 

At last when he closed his desk and left the 
office it was eight o’clock. He walked swiftly, 


A Slump in Fluor-spar 197 

not wishing to lose another minute more of his 
evening with Madge than was necessary. As 
he entered the hotel lobby several men were 
standing near the cigar counter, and among 
them he recognized Judd Oxnard’s loud voice. 

“ I tell you,” Oxnard was proclaiming as 
Paul approached, “ Fluor-spar is on its way to 
50, — it is on its way to the dump-pile.” 

One of the group, discovering Paul, spoke a 
word of warning in an undertone, but Oxnard, 
reddening a little, stared at Paul for a second 
and then, including all his hearers with a sweep 
of his arm, added in even a louder tone, — 

“ If anybody thinks I don’t know what I ’m 
talkin’ about, I will sell him a hundred shares 
of Fluor-spar at par, deliverable May 15.” 

The crowd was silent; every one, including 
Oxnard, was now looking at Paul, who was 
passing by, within a few feet. 

At this he paused. “ Gentlemen,” he said, 
“ if none of you wishes to accept that pro- 
position, I ’ll take it.” 

“ Done ! ” exclaimed Oxnard. “ And now,” 
his heavy head bent forward toward Paul, 
“ there ’s another hundred, same time, at 90.” 

“ Oh, here ! I ’d like that, if you ’ve no 
objection, Rodman,” Fletcher Keith put in. 


The Inlander 


198 

“ Certainly,” Paul assented and walked on, 
turning to Oxnard with the remark, — 

“ Gaynor & Clay will be authorized to attend 
to this for me to-morrow.” 

“ Done ag’in ! ** laughed Oxnard, viciously. 


XIX 


AVICE 

MADGE was upstairs, dressing and wondering 
why Paul was so late. 

She was very happy as Mrs. Paul Rodman. 
The social life of a city was something new to 
her, and she entered it with a zest that was 
characteristic. She was acknowledged to be 
a decided “ success.” Her artless enthusiasm, 
her innocent coquetry, her engaging freshness 
and delicate beauty, together with her exquisite 
dressing, united in investing her with a charm 
of novelty, and made an undeniable impres- 
sion. Mrs. MacQuarrie, who, having married 
MacQuarrie, as she freely avowed, to secure 
the MacQuarrie tartan, and having secured it, 
together with a divorce, now had time to 
devote herself, unencumbered by conjugal 
cares, to society leadership, taxed her vocal 
powers, as hardy as they were, in expatiating 
on the attractions of “ that dear child, young 
Mrs. Rodman,” whom she took under her 


200 


The Inlander 


patronage, notwithstanding the lack of encour- 
agement with which Paul himself met her 
advances. Even the most austere leader of the 
intellectual set, Miss Shaw, — who since her 
contributions to The Woman' s Windlass in- 
sisted on identifying herself as Hester Grother- 
ingcote Shaw, — admitted that Paul Rodman’s 
wife was “ quite a type,” and classified the 
type as “ just the sort of woman the so-called 
stronger sex would be most likely to go daft 
about.” As for that other society leader, 
Drewdie Poteet, Madge was one woman whom 
he was known to praise invariably without 
qualification. 

Paul Rodman, busy as he was, “ went out ” 
a great deal more that winter than he had 
ever done before his marriage. He had de- 
termined to gratify as far as he could Madge’s 
desire for social pleasures, hoping that the 
edge of her eagerness for a life of which she 
had seen so little would in time wear away. 
If she had been any other woman of his 
acquaintance, he might have allowed himself 
to grow doubtful over the outcome. But he 
felt that such activity and gayety were as 
natural and as harmless to Madge in the city 
as the flowers and Piff had been in the coun- 


Avice 


201 


try. It would all turn out best in the end, he 
thought, and if he craved a somewhat different 
life, he must be content, for the present, to 
wait for it. 

To-night he found Madge posing and preen- 
ing before her full-length mirror, eying criti- 
cally and approvingly, from every point of 
view which she could gain by a twist of the 
head or a turn of the body, the toilet which 
she had just completed. Paul paused in the 
doorway between her room and the small par- 
lor, and smilingly watched the pantomime. 
She discovered his reflection in the glass and 
made a little courtesy to it. 

“ Ah, Mr. Paul Rodman ! ” she said. “ So 
you have come at last! And you have the 
audacity to stand there laughing instead of 
begging forgiveness for being so late ! ” 

Paul went toward her with extended hands, 
and she ran to meet him. She caught his 
hands in hers, but as he drew her to him and 
was about to throw his arm around her, she 
quickly slipped aside. 

“ No, no, no ! ” she laughed. “ Not in this 
dress ! ” She receded a step, and giving the 
skirt a little smoothing caress added, “ How 
do you like it, Paul? Isn’t it pretty?” 


202 The Inlander 

“ Yes, it’s pretty,” he replied ; “ but I don’t 
like it.” 

Her face fell, and it was a surprised and 
hurt look that she fixed on him. 

“You — don’t — like — my — dress! Oh, 
Paul ! And I thought it was your color.” 

“ I don’t like any dress which makes you 
say ‘ No, no, no ! ’ ” 

The blush and the pleased laugh should 
have recompensed him for any loss he had 
suffered. She threw him a kiss from the tips 
of her fingers, following it with — 

“ But you, Paul — you have not even begun 
to get ready ! And I am to receive with 
Mrs. Garnett to-night, and promised to come 
early ! ” 

“ I was kept at the office longer than usual. 
But I was about to ask you, Madge, if you 
have your heart set on going to Mrs. Garnett’s 
this evening?” 

“Why, what a question! Has — has any- 
thing serious happened?” her eyes widening 
in apprehension. 

“ No, dear,” he smiled ; “ only I can’t very 
welt take you to-night.” 

“Again?” her face clouding. “How un- 
fortunate ! Let me see,” counting her fingers, 


Avice 


203 

“ this is the third time since Lent I ’ve had to 
go out with some one else, Paul.” 

“I’m sorry; but I’m called to New York 
on business, and as my train leaves shortly 
after midnight and I have several little things 
to look after in the mean time, I could 
not very well dress twice and take in Mrs. 
Garnett’s.” 

“ Oh, I ’m so sorry ! What a hateful thing 
business is ! And you would have had such 
a good time at Mrs. Garnett’s, too. She en- 
tertains so delightfully. But, oh, Paul,” the 
thought seeming just to have dawned on her, 
“ of course you will manage to go somehow, 
for we shall want to see as much as possible of 
each other before your train leaves.” 

“ I ’m sure it would hardly be worth while 
to make the effort. I should barely have time 
to do more than get to Mrs. Garnett’s and get 
away again.” 

He turned from her and picked up a book 
lying on the table, not wishing her to see the 
disappointment which he was afraid showed 
too plainly on his face. 

But Madge was centred in her own disap- 
pointment. She dropped into a chair with a 
sigh. 


204 


The Inlander 


“Then I shall not go either,” she said. “Of 
course I shall not.” 

Paul glanced at her eagerly, but she was such 
a picture of childish depression that his eyes 
instantly fell to the book. 

“ I can take you, dear,” he suggested, “ and 
you can return with some one else in the 
hotel, — Mrs. Hurd, for instance.” 

“ Oh, but I shall not go, Paul — how could 
you think it? — if you are to leave to-night,” 
hopelessly. 

“ Madge,” he said, as he turned the leaves 
of the little volume, “ have you looked over the 
Vignettes in Rhyme I brought you yesterday? ” 

“Not yet,” she replied absently; “I have 
been so busy ever since.” 

“ Do you remember some verses I quoted to 
you that day when I made my first call at 
Cousin Jo Cabanis’s?” 

“ Yes, about the bird girl,” in the same pre- 
occupied manner. 

“ Here is the whole poem in this book.” 

“ Is it? I will read it to-morrow.” 

“ It closes thus,” lightly, — 

“ 4 When you left me, only now, 

In that furred, 

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, 

I was spurred 


Avice 


205 


Just to catch you, O my Sweet, 

By the bodice, trim and neat, — 

Just to feel your heart a-beat, 

Like a bird. 

“ ‘Yet, alas ! Love’s light you deign 
But to wear 

As the dew upon your plumes, 

And you care 
Not a whit for rest or hush ; 

But the leaves, the lyric gush, 

And the wing-power, and the rush 
Of the air. 

“ ‘ So I dare not woo you, Sweet, 

For a day, 

Lest I lose you in a flash, 

As I may ; 

Did I tell you tender things, 

You would shake your sudden wings; 

You would start from him who sings. 

And away.’ ” 

“ Oh, I know what we can do, Paul ! ” she 
cried gayly, springing to her feet. “ I will 
remain with you until you get ready to go to 
the train ; then you can take me to Mrs. Gar- 
nett’s on your way to the station, and I can 
return with Mrs. Hurd. Why did n’t we think 
of it before?” catching one hand in the other 
in a way she had when she was excited. 

“ Yes, why did n’t we? ” Paul smiled. “ It ’s 
very simple, is n’t it? ” 


206 


The Inlander 


“And it will be the next thing to having you 
go to the ball and enjoy it with me.” 

Paul did not answer. There would have 
been nothing for him to say even if there had 
not been a quick rapping at the parlor door, 
instantly followed by the entrance of Mrs. 
MacQuarrie in a whirlwind of crinkling skirts, 
after whom, like drift in the track of the gale, 
came Drewdie Poteet. 

Madge ran out to meet them, and Paul was 
not far behind her. 

“ Ah, here you are ! ” Mrs. MacQuarrie, 
rubicund and plump, exclaimed, kissing Madge. 
“How are you, Mr. Rodman? We are just 
in time, Mr. Poteet ! You see,” turning to 
Madge again and running on in a round, 
bounding voice that might have been devel- 
oped in high winds, “ Mr. Poteet said he 
wanted to see your husband before he left for 
New York to-night, and I said, ‘ I wonder if 
that poor child has any one to take her to 
Ellen Garnett’s, if her husband is going to 
New York? We might be in time to get her 
to go with us.’ And Mr. Poteet said Mr. 
Rodman would probably go to Ellen Garnett’s 
himself, if only for a little while, though he 
didn’t believe Paul Rodman was as fond of 


Avice 


20 7 


society as he used to be, and all he did go out 
for was to feast his eyes on his pretty wife. 
And I — ” 

“Oh, come now, Mrs. MacQuarrie,” Drewdie 
Poteet laughed ; “ you forget. That was n’t 
what I said.” 

“ Shut up, Drewdie Poteet ! And I said, 
* Pshaw ! Paul Rodman likes society well 
enough, only he has seen more of it than she 
has, and he ’d be a wretch if he did n’t want 
to feast his eyes on a wife like that, — every- 
body else does, I ’m sure.’ And I ’m awfully 
glad you haven’t gone yet — ” to Madge. 
“And I don’t see how you can make up 
your mind to leave her at all, Mr. Rodman.” 

“ It is n’t a matter of inclination, Mrs. Mac- 
Quarrie,” smiled Paul. “ But it ought to be 
some consolation to know that I leave her for 
to-night in such appreciative hands.” 

“ Would n’t anybody take better care of her 
— you make yourself easy on that point. 
And oh!” — to Madge again — “ how beauti- 
ful you are looking! Who made it?” 

There were a few moments in which Madge 
and Mrs. MacQuarrie were lost to all else ex- 
cept the dress, while Drewdie Poteet and Paul 
talked Fluor-spar. 


208 


The Inlander 


Then there was a tap, from the corridor, on 
the partially open door, accompanied by a rich 
voice, — 

“ May I come in and see your gown, Mrs. 
Rodman? ” 

And Lucy Oxnard, handsomer than ever 
and thoroughly at ease, was in the room. 

“ Oh, you are ravishing ! ” she said to Madge. 

“ Do you really like it, Mrs. Oxnard ? ” 
Madge asked, with unaffected pleasure, ad- 
vancing to meet her. 

“Dear me, if it ain’t Lucy Oxnard!” ex- 
claimed Mrs. MacQuarrie. “ How are you, 
Lucy? I didn’t know you’d got back from 
Florida.” 

“ I ’ve only been here for two or three days. 
I ’m really just passing through, on my way to 
Europe.” 

“ Europe in summer and Cathay in winter. 
It’s always only just passing through Louis- 
ville with you, ain’t it, Lucy? Poor Judd 
Oxnard ! He never gets off of Fifth Street, 
does he?” 

Mrs. Oxnard laughed mildly. 

“ Here are some flowers I came by to leave 
with you, dear,” she said to Madge ; “ but 
nothing could make you look lovelier. You 


Avice 


209 


must run up to 527 to-morrow and say good- 
bye. Remember, I leave to-morrow afternoon.” 
And Mrs. Oxnard, serene and graceful, dis- 
appeared into the corridor while Madge was 
yet effervescing over the roses. 

When Lucy Oxnard had entered, Drewdie 
Poteet grew red and looked uncomfortably at 
Paul, but he saw nothing that he was certain 
of except that Paul’s bow, which was slight 
and perfunctory, seemed more indicative of 
surprise than welcome. Whatever else he may 
have felt, Paul was certainly surprised by the 
visit of Lucy Oxnard and her assumption of 
interest in Madge. Beyond, perhaps, a casual 
meeting at some public gathering he was not 
aware that Madge knew her. 

“ My ! Drewdie Poteet,” Mrs. MacQuarrie 
marvelled, “ you and Lucy Oxnard are as 
formal as if you did n’t know each other like 
old shoes. Madge, is she stopping at this 
hotel?” 

Madge answered that Mrs. Oxnard had been 
at the hotel two or three days, adding, — 

“ She was in to see me this afternoon, and 
helped me ever so kindly with my hair.” 

“ Off to Europe to-morrow, is she? That’s 
like her. I don’t suppose she has spent 
14 


210 


The Inlander 


more than a month or two a year with Judd 
Oxnard since her honeymoon. But you can’t 
blame her for that. Well, shall we start, 
dear? ” 

“ It ’s so good of you, Mrs. MacQuarrie,” 
Madge replied, a little agitated ; “ but I ’m not 
going, you know — that is, not till Paul — ” 

“ I suppose you might as well go on with 
Mrs. MacQuarrie and Drewdie now, Madge,” 
Paul said, coming over to her and once more 
sinking what, under the circumstances, he 
regarded as his own selfishness in order to 
further her pleasure. “ It is getting late and 
I could not see very much of you, anyway.” 

“ Oh, no, Paul ! I could n’t possibly, — do 
you really think I ought to go?” 

Paul could not help smiling at her. “ I 
think it would be outright rudeness to Mrs. 
MacQuarrie and Drewdie if you refused to 
go, with no better excuse. I will get your 
wrap.” 

“ So say we all ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Mac- 
Quarrie. “ Well, come on, Mr. Poteet. We’ll 
wait for you at the elevator, Madge.” And 
she marched out, with Drewdie Poteet, thus 
giving Paul an opportunity for a last word 
with Madge, — an act of consideration which 


Avice 2 1 1 

he would hardly have expected of Mrs. Mac- 
Quarrie. 

Paul returned and fastened the wrap around 
Madge. 

“ Oh, Paul ! ” she grieved meanwhile, “ it ’s 
a shame you must go away to-night, is n’t 
it? And you are sure you will be back 
soon? ” 

“ Saturday, with luck. Good-bye, Madge.” 

He stooped and kissed her lightly. 

She did not move, but stood as if waiting, 
while the rose hue of her hood’s lining seemed 
reflected on her face. 

“ But may I?” Paul smiled. “That dress, 
you know.” 

“ I don’t care for the dress — now.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her 
again. 

She picked up the roses and started to the 
door. “You must go with me as far as the 
carriage, at any rate,” she said. 

“ Don’t take those, Madge,” he requested 
her, holding out his hand for the roses. 

“Why?” she paused in wonder. “I think 
they are beautiful.” 

“Yes; but I don’t want you to carry them, 
I will tell you why some time.” 


212 


The Inlander 


“ But, Paul, they match my dress perfectly. 
And, besides, it would not be nice to Mrs. 
Oxnard.” 

“ It is because they are hers that I want 
you to throw them away,” taking the roses 
and tossing them on the table. 

“ How strangely you act, Paul ! Mrs. Ox- 
nard seems to be a very sweet woman.” 

“ Mrs. Oxnard has a way of seeming, 
Madge; I don’t wish you to have anything 
to do with her.” 

“ Dear me ! ” in bewilderment. “ And she 
said you and she were such old friends. 
Well, you must tell me all about it when 
you get back.” 

Paul accompanied her to the carriage, re- 
turning more disappointed than he cared to 
admit to himself, that Madge, after all, had not 
remained. 

“ What a light-hearted girl she is,” he 
thought, “ and I ’d be a brute to do anything 
to make her less so. But — ” 

He was interrupted by the voice of Lucy 
Oxnard, as she appeared in the doorway : 
“ Mrs. Rodman ! Oh, I beg pardon — has 
Madge gone? I think I must have dropped a 
letter in here a few moments ago.” 


Avice 


213 


Paul had seen no letter, and it was evident, 
on looking around, that it was not in the room. 
Lucy Oxnard, however, continued to search 
for it in a languid way, and Paul made a 
similar pretence. 

“ I wonder you are not at the Garnetts’ to- 
night,” she murmured. “ By the way, I have 
never really had an opportunity to congratu- 
late you since you married. I hope you are 
very happy?” her voice falling into the old 
dulcet key which he remembered so well. 

“Thank you,” he answered, peering under 
the piano in quest of the letter. 

“ Madge is such a simple, affectionate 
child,” purred Lucy Oxnard, taking a book 
from the table and studying the title, “ and we 
are already good friends. Indeed, I am quite 
charmed with her. But I hear that she goes 
out a great deal without you. I wonder that 
you allow that. She is so young and inexpe- 
rienced, and so fond of admiration; while, as 
you know, people talk so much — ” 

“ Mrs. Oxnard,” facing her and addressing 
her with a directness that could not be mis- 
understood, “ I hope you will not forget that it 
is my wife you are speaking of.” 

“ Indeed, I do not ! And neither do other 


214 


The Inlander 


people. Why, society is already sympathizing 
with you, Paul, on account of the way the 
foolish child’s head has been turned.” 

“ Mrs. Oxnard, you did not leave your letter 
in here ! ” 

Neither the words nor the emphasis with 
which they were spoken could have left a 
doubt as to his meaning, but Lucy Oxnard 
continued, apparently unruffled, — 

“ I consider it only the duty of a real friend 
— the person most concerned is usually the 
last to discover such things, you know — to 
tell you that everybody is commenting on 
Madge’s dangerous flirtation with Fletch — ” 

“ Stop ! Mrs. Oxnard, I think I ’d better 
inform you that I refused to permit Mrs. 
Rodman to carry the flowers you brought her 
this evening under a pretext of friendship. I 
regret that you have forced me to be thus 
explicit, and I hope it is unnecessary for me 
to say more.” 

“ Perfectly unnecessary,” she answered 
coolly. “ And I hope it is unnecessary for 
me to say more to open your eyes to the — 
the indiscretion of your wife.” 

“ Madame,” Paul spoke imperatively, with 
colorless lips and flashing eyes, laying his 


Avice 


2I 5 

hand on the door and swinging it wide, “ I 
must wish you good-evening.” 

“ Thank you for reminding me of my obli- 
gations as a guest ; but you have made your- 
self so agreeable that I have stayed much 
longer than I intended,” she smiled over her 
shoulder as she slowly left the room. “ Au 
revoir. Please send up the letter if you should 
find it, and — don’t forget my advice about 
Madge.” 

Paul closed the door after her as if he were 
shutting it against a storm-gust; after which 
he threw some things vigorously into a travel- 
ling-bag, tried to read a paper, looked at his 
watch, and went down to the cafe. 


XX 


MADGE 

A FEW minutes later Madge returned from 
the Garnetts’, followed by Mrs. MacQuarrie, 
who was glowing with impatiently restrained 
excitement and out of breath from her efforts 
to keep pace with her younger companion. 

Madge, too, was much agitated. Her step 
as she entered the room was quick and ner- 
vous; her cheeks were burning; her eyes 
were abnormally brilliant and set in what might 
have been read as an expression of startled 
fright and anger. She flung off her wraps, 
reckless of where they fell, and threw herself 
on the sofa with no longer the least considera- 
tion of the dainty dress ; while the fragile fan 
which she held was already an irreparable 
ruin. 

Mrs. MacQuarrie, with a sigh of relief, 
dropped into a chair. 

“Goodness me!” she puffed. “What a 
chase you have led me up those stairs ! I can 


217 


Madge 

hardly breathe. And now, child, that we are 
here and alone, tell me what in the world is 
the matter?” 

“ Oh, don’t ask me, please ! ” pleaded Madge, 
in a low tone, in which there was a slightly 
stridulous strain wholly foreign to her naturally 
limpid voice. 

“ Don’t ask you ! ” fanning herself desper- 
ately. “ Do you think I ’m going to sit here 
and expire with curiosity? And you carrying 
on in this way ! ” 

“ Oh, it ’s nothing, — nothing that you can 
help me in,” Madge answered, as if she were 
beyond all help. 

“ I won’t believe that till you tell me. See 
here, child, do you know how long you stayed 
at Ellen Garnett’s? Just twenty-five minutes, 
— twenty-five minutes! I looked at the clock 
myself in the dressing-room. And when you 
came rushing over to me all flustered and white, 
as if you had seen a — a cannibal, and vowed 
and declared you must go immediately, and 
would n’t stay a second longer ; and sat there 
in the carriage so awfully stiff all the way 
back; and when you got to the hotel and 
could n’t even wait for the elevator, and forgot 
to say so much as good-night to poor Drewdie 


2l8 


The Inlander 


Poteet, but just swished up the stairs like all 
possessed, with me running the risk of apos- 
trophe of the heart trying to keep up with 
you, — do you suppose I ’m going to sit here 
and believe there ’s nothing the matter with 
you, and that I’m going to leave this room 
until I know what it is?” 

“ It — oh ! Mrs. MacQuarrie, it was those 
terrible people,” Madge said, with a spasmodic 
effort. 

“ Goodness me ! what terrible people? ” 

“I don’t know — I don’t know! I didn’t 
look at them.” 

4i Well, I never ! What about them? Where 
were they? What did they do? ” 

“ I — was standing in the reception room 
talking to that Mr. Keith, when all at once I 
heard two ladies near me say — such horrible 
things ! ” 

“ You did? ” bending forward with alert in- 
terest. “ What did they say, Madge? ” 

“ They were talking about me ; and one of 
them,” halting with a slight shudder, “ one of 
them said, * There is that Mrs. Rodman with 
Fletcher Keith again.’ And the other one — 
oh, Mrs. MacQuarrie, she said, ‘ It ’s simply 
shameful the way she carries on with every 


219 


Madge 

man except her husband/ Then the first 
one said, ‘ Yes, and her flirtation with such 
a creature as Fletcher Keith is positively 
scandalous/ Then — then — ” bowing her 
head in shame, “ I hurried away and came 
to you.” 

‘‘Pshaw! was that all?” And Mrs. Mac- 
Quarrie leaned back in her chair and folded 
up her fan in unconcealed disappointment. 
“ Why, you little goose,” with an amused 
laugh, “that was nothing! Women are al- 
ways talking that way about other women 
when the other women are popular and have 
a better time than they do. Madge Rodman, 
if it was n’t for the looks of it, I ’d take you 
right back this minute ! ” 

“ No ! no ! no ! I could never face those 
people again. And I thought them all so 
pleasant,” regretfully ; “ and everybody 

seemed so kind to me, and I tried to treat 
everybody the same way, because I was so 
happy. And now for them to say such cruel 
things about — about Paul and me, — oh, I 
can’t understand it, and I can’t bear it ! ” 

“ Come, you foolish child ! There is n’t 
anybody worth crying about. There never is ! 
Besides, those women did n’t mean any harm 


220 


The Inlander 


They only envy you. They ’d be only too 
glad to hear somebody say the same things 
about themselves.” 

“ Surely you can’t think that, Mrs. Mac- 
Quarrie ! ” 

“ Surely, what can I think, Mrs. Rodman ? 
Am I to believe you are sitting there and telling 
me that you have n’t heard such remarks made 
about other women in Louisville?” 

“ Do you mean that such remarks are com- 
mon among nice people?” 

“ Common ? They are as common as colds.” 

“ And they still receive a woman they say 
such things about ? ” 

“Well,” Mrs. MacQuarrie laughed, “ I never 
would have dreamed that a girl could have 
been six months in Louisville society and be 
such a delightful ignoramus. Receive her ? 
They run after her. My stars ! Your expe- 
rience to-night simply proves that you are a 
success.” 

“ Then I don’t want to be a success ! ” 
Madge replied emphatically. 

“ Pooh ! you need a good night’s sleep. 
Come, let me put you to bed, and you ’ll get 
up to-morrow all right for the Lindsay 
wedding.” 


221 


Madge 

“ Oh, no ! I ’m not going. I don’t feel 
as if I should ever care to go anywhere 
again.” 

“ Fiddlesticks ! You talk as if you were 
plumb out of your senses, child.” 

“ I ’m afraid I ’ve just come to my senses, 
Mrs. MacQuarrie,” Madge replied, with a 
pensive seriousness. “ After to-night, and 
what they said about me, and what you ’ve 
said, I don’t see how I could help detesting 
so many things which I have liked before, 
even if I cared to keep on liking them.” 

“ Madge, you ’ll positively make me ashamed 
of you. You are certainly not intending all 
of a sudden to settle down into a stay-at-home 
nobody, a humdrum drudge, are you? If 
you are, let me tell you right now that ’s the 
very worst policy you could follow with a 
husband like yours.” 

“ Why, what are you talking about, Mrs. 
MacQuarrie?” Madge asked, with some evi- 
dence of alarm. 

“ It’s plain enough what I ’m talking about. 
It’s as certain as anything that if you do as 
you threaten to do it will be the ruination of 
your husband as a husband.” 

“ I don’t think it necessary to discuss Paul, 


222 The Inlander 

Mrs. MacQuarrie,” straightening up to a very 
pretty dignity. 

“Well, I suppose I’d better speak right 
out. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep 
right on just as you’ve been doing. You 
have all the admiration, all the attention, all 
the envy, and all the clothes you could wish, 
and you have a husband who lets you do as 
you please. I ’d like to know what more a 
woman could want? But if you change your 
tactics and go in for playing the humble 
domestic r 61 e, you not only lose your free- 
dom, but you make an unendurable tyrant 
of your husband besides.” 

“ Indeed,” with spirit, “ I don’t see that 
that follows at all ! ” 

“ I do. I know more about husbands than 
you do, Madge. I ’ve had two of them. 
And I know Paul Rodman like a book. He ’s 
just the kind of a man to want to make a slave 
of a woman if he is in love with her, and I 
never saw one’s husband more ridiculously 
in love with her than he is with you.” 

Madge’s face lit up with a sudden smile. 
“ Oh-h ! ” she said, “ and why should n’t he 
be in love with me ? ” 

“ When you know as much about men as 


Madge 223 

I do,” explained Mrs. MacQuarrie, now in 
excellent breath, “ you ’ll understand that if 
they are too much in love with their wives, 
they are almost sure to become jealous and 
exacting, and regular nuisances generally. 
Oh ! I ’ve known Paul Rodman for a long 
time, and I’ve watched him ever since you 
were married, and I tell you, Madge, he’s 
just the sort of man who wants his wife all 
to himself; who ’d like to settle down at home 
in his slippers at night and have her play 
for him, or read to him, or perch on the 
arm of his chair and pet the bald spot com- 
ing on his head, or sit on a footstool and 
lean against his knee and look moon-eyed 
things — and all that kind of sentimental 
folderol.” 

“ Mrs. MacQuarrie,” Madge asked gently, 
and with some hesitation, “ do you really 
think that of Paul ? ” 

“ Think it? I know it! The man gazes 
on you as if he were absolutely hungry for 
you and were afraid you ’d fly away from him. 
Oh, I know that kind! He’s just like one 
of them I married, who wanted me to give 
up everything for him and mope around the 
house, and all that.” 


224 


The Inlander 


“ And didn’t that make you happy?” 
Madge asked, with wondering eyes. 

“ Make me happy? Perhaps it did; it 
made me get a divorce. I thought you knew 
that.” 

“ You got a divorce because — because he 
loved you so much?” 

“ Pooh ! I got a divorce because he wanted 
to monopolize me, — incompatibility, my law- 
yers called it. You can find plenty of men 
to love you, child, but what’s the good of 
love if you’re incompatible?” 

There was a new charm of sweetness and 
seriousness on Madge’s face as it drooped un- 
til her eyes were covered by the handkerchief 
which she held, and there was a quiver in her 
voice as she moaned, seemingly oblivious of 
Mrs. MacQuarrie’s presence, — 

“ Oh, how foolish I have been, and how 
cold and heartless he must think me ! ” 

“ Who? What are you going on about, 
Madge Rodman? Who must think you so 
cold?” 

“ Paul.” 

“ Gracious ! you have to be cold — tem- 
perately cold — in that way. I tell you if you 
don’t be, there ’s no saying how soon he ’ll 


225 


Madge 

become the most unbridled Bluebeard. I 
believe he ’s capable of almost any absurdity 
about a woman, if she is his wife. Now let 
me tell you something Jack promised he 
wouldn’t say anything about. Since things 
have come to such a pass as this, you ought 
to be put on your guard.” 

“ No ; not if it is anything about Paul, and 
he doesn’t wish me to know it.” 

“ There you go now ! That ’s what a woman 
might have said when she really believed she 
was nothing more than a man’s rib. You ’ve 
called on my niece, Annie Fordham, have n’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you notice the stuffy little box of a 
house she and Jack Fordham are living in?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, that ’s the cage your husband in- 
tended for you.” 

“ For me?” suddenly emerging from the 
handkerchief. “ Mrs. MacQuarrie, what do 
you mean?” 

“ I mean that Paul Rodman bought that 
house for you before you married him, and 
tinkered it up, and expected to stick you in it 
out there on the commons, and make you go 

15 


226 


The Inlander 


to drudging right from the start. A man’s 
love never is anything but unadulterated sel- 
fishness, anyhow.” 

“Paul bought that house for — for us?” a 
rare softness in her voice. 

“ But he found, thanks to your good sense, 
that you had some spirit of your own and 
objected to becoming a mere domestic, and so 
he leased the cottage to Jack and Annie, poor 
things ! But, my word for it, he has n’t given 
up the idea of getting you into it yet. The 
only way to manage a man is never to yield 
the first inch to him. If you do, you might as 
well put on his collar and chain and be done 
with it.” 

“ Mrs. MacQuarrie,” Madge spoke eagerly, 
“the house is still ours, is n’t it? When does 
the Fordhams’ lease end?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know; probably next January.” 

“You must tell them that we shall want the 
house then.” 

“ What? ” explosively. 

Madge, beaming now, jumped up suddenly, 
wringing one hand impetuously in the other. 

“ And, oh,” she cried, “ if they could only 
get another place this week and let me move 
in before Paul returns from New York ! Don’t 


22 / 


Madge 

you think they could, Mrs. MacQuarrie? ” 
springing to that worthy soul’s side and wind- 
ing an arm about her neck. 

“ Madge Rodman, what on earth are you 
driving at?” 

“ Oh, it would be such a surprise for Paul to 
find me housekeeping when he comes back ! ” 
enthusiastically. 

“ My stars alive ! are you stark, stone crazy? 
You don’t mean to stand here before my very 
eyes and tell me you are going to housekeep- 
ing, after all — and before your honeymoon is 
fairly over.” 

“ I ’m wild to do it,” Madge laughed. 

“ And after having held out against him this 
long, too ! It ’s — it ’s downright suicide ! ” 

“ But I don’t want to hold out against him ! 
I did n’t know I was holding out against him ! 
And I ’m going to see the Fordhams the first 
thing to-morrow. Won’t you please go with 
me and help arrange it, Mrs. MacQuarrie?” 

“I’m going to bed, and you do the same, 
Madge Rodman ! ” Mrs. MacQuarrie ex- 
claimed, bouncing up. “ I sha’n’t talk to you 
any more until you ’ve had a good night’s 
sleep and are yourself again.” 

“ Dear Mrs. MacQuarrie,” Madge answered 


228 


The Inlander 


gently, taking the other’s hand, “ I am myself 
again.” 

“ Foolish girl ! ” Mrs. MacQuarrie said, 
with a kiss ; but there was more tenderness in 
the kiss and in the tone than she had ever 
before shown for Madge. 


XXI 


FLETCHER KEITH DEVELOPS A TASTE FOR 
CHOPIN 

Mrs. MacQuarrie’s departure left Madge 
in a turmoil of varying emotions. She was 
very remorseful over what she deemed her 
blind heartlessness to Paul, but she was 
exhilarated by the thought of the amends she 
intended to make. Precipitately sweeping 
aside the practical difficulties in the way, she 
was impatient to begin her amends at once by 
taking possession of the house he had provided 
for her, and she was the more impatient be- 
cause the disclosure of the existence of such 
a house was a revelation of a phase of Paul’s 
care for her, as well as of his own inclina- 
tions, which smote her with a morbid sense 
of frivolity and guilt. She recalled, with a 
pang that made her eyes misty, how flippantly, 
in her giddy inapprehension, she had parried 
his suggestion, months before, that she go 
with him to look at a house which he thought 
would suit her. How delicate and considerate 


The Inlander 


230 

it was! And yet she felt a spark of resent- 
ment because he had not been less delicate. 

And all this gay season she had rarely spent 
an evening alone with him, when, as she now 
saw, such evenings would have meant so much 
to him, and, in this new light that had broken 
upon her, so much also to her. 

But it would be very different in the future. 
With her hands lying clasped in her lap, and 
her eyes resting dreamily on them, she thought 
out the details of her little plot, by which, with 
the help of the Fordhams, she hoped to sur- 
prise Paul on his return from New York. 

Suddenly her lips parted with a happy smile, 
and she almost ran across the room to a writ- 
ing-desk. Although Paul could not be more 
than a few miles out of Louisville, she was 
eager to write to him. She laid out the paper 
with tremulous haste. There was so much 
that she wished to say, which she could not 
wait till his return to say, and which she had 
never thought of saying before to-night. She 
would write him a long, long letter, such as 
she had never written before, and he should 
hardly reach New York before it should follow 
him. 

She had impulsively begun the letter when 


231 


A Taste for Chopin 

she paused abruptly and, with her elbow rest- 
ing on the desk, held the pen suspended above 
the paper for a second ; then she dropped the 
pen and covered her face with her hands. She 
did not know — in her excitement about the 
ball she had not thought to ask — Paul’s 
address in New York. 

She sat thus for several minutes, torment- 
ing herself with accusations and confessions of 
shallowness and selfishness and with thoughts 
of Paul’s loving forbearance. Then she took 
from the desk an old photograph of Paul and 
gazed at it long through tears; rising, she 
went abstractedly from object to object in the 
room, at last picking up Vignettes in Rhyme 
and turning to the poem from which he had 
read to her. She ran over it breathlessly, 
every line having now a personal and exag- 
gerated meaning. She read it again, more 
slowly, and still again; and the next quarter 
of an hour passed with her face buried among 
the sofa pillows. A prolonged locomotive 
whistle sounded through the stillness; and she 
went to a window and stood listening deso- 
lately to the faint roll of a train until it died 
away. She left the window and sat down 
listlessly at the piano. She turned over the 


232 


The Inlander 


music with aimless hands, pausing as she came 
to a copy of Chopin’s Berceuse in D flat. It 
was a favorite of Paul’s, and she opened it and 
set it before her. 

As she began playing it softly, the corridor 
door, which she had not noticed had been 
left slightly ajar on Mrs. McQuarrie’s exit, 
was pushed open and a man entered the room. 
He was in evening dress; he carried his hat 
and his gloves in his hand, and the fever of 
wine was on his handsome face. 

Madge saw him as he advanced toward her, 
and springing from her seat she turned upon 
him in a pitiable flutter of anger and terror. 

“ Mr. Keith ! ” she said in a low voice, 
tremulously uncertain, “ what does this mean?” 

“ Nothing in particular,” he answered cheer- 
fully. “ Only I heard you playing as I passed 
by on my way to my room, and thought I ’d 
look in on you for a moment. Just got in 
from the Garnetts’,” sauntering nearer. 

“ Surely,” coldly and with more control, 
receding a step as she spoke, “ you must 
know I do not receive callers at such an hour 
as this ! ” 

“ I beg pardon ; but it is not at all late, — 
hardly more than eleven yet. Besides, I only 


2 33 


A Taste for Chopin 

stopped to inquire why you deserted the Gar- 
netts’ so soon this evening. Nothing wrong, I 
hope? ” 

“Mr. Keith, I must ask you to leave at 
once ! And please remember you have not 
my permission to call on me at all.” 

“ Certainly,” with an equanimity which was 
unshaken except for the wine he had drunk; 
“ but I beg to assure Mrs. Rodman that I am 
always at her command. You were playing 
Chopin, I believe, when I came in,” bending 
over the music on the piano. “ If, at any 
time, I can be of any service whatever, you 
can easily summon me by striking a few notes 
of the Berceuse , and I shall be only too happy 
to respond at once. My room is but a few 
doors down the corridor.” 

Madge, white and quivering, crossed swiftly 
to the electric button in the wall. 

“ If you do not leave at once,” she said in 
intense wrath, from which all fear had been 
burnt out, “ I shall ring and have you ex- 
pelled.” 

“ Mrs. Rodman is unduly and, I must say, 
inexplicably, excited by an offer of mere 
neighborly civility,” moving easily toward the 
door. “ I trust she will be her own charming 


2 34 


The Inlander 


and gracious self once more by to-morrow. 
Meanwhile, till we meet again.” 

He bowed deferentially, and turning drew 
back the partially open door. As he did so 
he recoiled slightly, for there was a sudden 
stir within three feet of him as Lucy Oxnard 
glided away rapidly down the corridor. 

Keith, recovering instantly from his sur- 
prise, passed out with a smile, gently closing 
the door after him. 

Madge, who, standing near the wall, had 
seen nothing of this pantomime, rushed for- 
ward as the door was closed, and shot the 
bolt. 

Then reeling to a chair, she sank on her 
knees beside it, and bowing her head on her 
folded arms, shook with a repressed storm of 
impassioned sobs. 


XXII 


THE SIGNAL 

Paul Rodman had left the cafe, chatted a 
while with some acquaintances in the lobby, 
walked to his office, and returned to the hotel 
for his bag. Stepping from the elevator, he 
came upon Lucy Oxnard, who was just start- 
ing up the stairs to the floor above. 

He was passing on, but she called to him, 
almost in a whisper, and with imperative 
sharpness, — 

“ Mr. Rodman ! ” 

He stopped, with an ill-concealed look of 
impatience. She was standing above him, 
at the curve of the stairway, holding her 
skirts with one hand, while with the other 
she clung to the balustrade as she leaned 
lithely over it toward him. Her color was 
unusually high, and her eyes were lit tri- 
umphantly as she spoke, — 

“ Paul Rodman, you insulted me to-night 
because I dared to hint that your wife is 


The Inlander 


236 

not the guileless baby you pretend to believe 
her. If you had been a minute earlier, you 
would have seen the proof with your own 
eyes. But you can see it yet. Go to her 
and ask her to play Chopin’s Berceuse; that 
is the signal by which she calls Fletcher Keith 
to her.” 

Paul took an involuntary step forward, as 
if to crush her in his clenched hand, as she 
vanished up the stairs with a mellow laugh. 

It was not the import of her words which 
affected him; it was the saying of them. 
That any one should dare to speak thus of 
Madge, and to him, astounded him, while 
it infuriated him all the more because he 
was impotent, on account of the speaker’s 
sex, to resent the outrage in the way in 
which every muscle of his body and every 
instinct of his manhood impelled him to re- 
sent it. 

He started up the corridor toward his 
rooms with a quickened stride, moved by 
a vague impulse to shield Madge, as if from 
some threatening danger, but his impetus re- 
laxed as it occurred to him that Madge was 
still at the Garnetts’. 

Reaching his door and turning the key in 


The Signal 237 

the lock, he was surprised to find that the bolt 
had been sprung. 

“Who’s there?” came in a faint, terrified 
voice from within. 

“ It is I, — Paul,” he answered reassuringly. 

There was a rush of rustling skirts, the door 
was quickly flung open, and as Paul stepped 
into the room, Madge, her face tear-stained 
and pathetically wrought since he had last 
seen it, threw herself into his arms with a 
broken cry of joy. 

“Why, Madge, what is the matter?” he 
asked anxiously. 

“ Oh, I ’m so glad you have come back ! ” 
was her hysterical reply. 

“What is troubling you, dear?” completely 
mystified. 

“ And you will not leave me? Not to-night, 
Paul, — never, never leave me again ! ” 

“ Not if you need me, Madge. There, I will 
postpone my trip altogether.” 

She clung to him closely, her choking sobs 
convulsing her delicate frame. He gently 
soothed her, finally drawing her to a seat 
on the sofa, where she soon became more 
calm, resting against him in contented silence, 
which was broken only by an occasional short 


238 The Inlander 

sigh, a faint echo of the gust of emotion which 
had passed. 

Paul was thoroughly perplexed, for evi- 
dently Madge had been profoundly affected. 
As he had just met Lucy Oxnard, he sur- 
mised that perhaps she had been with Madge 
again and had wounded her in some vicious 
way of which Lucy was fully capable. 

“ If,” he said lightly, as he stroked the 
hand he held, “ it is anything Mrs. Oxnard 
has been doing, you must not mind it at 
all, dear. A world of women like her is not 
worth one of your tears.” 

Madge raised her eyes gratefully, but there 
was a deprecating look of pain in them that 
caused him to draw her closer to him as she 
answered, — 

“ No, no ! I have not seen Mrs. Oxnard 
again. It is — oh, something has happened, 
Paul, to show me how — how desperately 
wicked I have been.” 

Paul smiled in spite of himself. 

“ And did this something — this awful some- 
thing — happen to-night? ” he asked. 

“Yes; at Mrs. Garnett’s,” dropping her 
lashes as if to hide the shame which began 
stealing into her cheeks. 


2 39 


The Signal 

Then with timorous words that halted and 
tripped over her sensitive mortification, she 
told him what the gossips had said of her 
at Mrs. Garnett’s. And when, hearing from 
him no response of reproof or condemna- 
tion, she ventured a shy glance to learn 
whether he looked the reproach he did not 
speak, and saw in his eyes only the soft radi- 
ance of love, she hid her face on his shoulder 
and lifted his hand to her lips. 

“ Poor girl ! ” he said, as if to himself, “ they 
would rob her of even youth itself.” 

And then, as she rested in his arms as 
a child might have nestled, he comforted 
her and reassured her as only one who at 
last thoroughly understood her could have 
done. 

“ But I ’m glad it happened, after all,” she 
said, with a face like a wild rose after a rain, 
“ because — because it has shown me my 
heart.” And after a short pause she added : 
“ I learned something else to-night, too. Paul, 
why did you never tell me about the house 
you bought for us?” 

“How did you hear of that?” he asked, a 
touch of displeasure in his tone. 

“ Never mind. But it was like you. And 


240 The Inlander 

it made me so unhappy, and then it made me 
so happy.” 

“ What a paradoxical wiseacre you have 
grown to be! You are really getting beyond 
my depth.” 

“ Oh, you need not laugh ! I was never so 
miserable before as I was to-night when I 
came to realize how good you have been and 
how frivolous I have been. No, you sha’n’t 
say anything now! You may believe it was n’t 
heartlessness, if you can, — only thoughtless- 
ness. It must have been that I was just so 
happy I never had any room for thought. But 
I never did think much — only when I was 
unhappy — only when you left us so suddenly 
that evening in Tennessee. Why, if I had 
only just thought how much nicer it would be 
to live in our own home, I should n’t have 
wanted to stay here a day longer ; and I almost 
feel like quarrelling with you because you 
did n’t make me think of it. Perhaps you 
imagine,” with a coquettish air of reproach, 
“ that I can’t think. I really believe you do, 
from the way you have treated me, and from 
the way you are laughing.” 

“ No,” said Paul, with a new note of glad 
content; “but you were happy as you were, 


The Signal 241 

and thinking does not always bring happi- 
ness.” 

“ But,” she answered gravely, “ I have come 
to understand that it brings the truest and 
deepest happiness.” 

Was it, indeed, another Madge, or was it 
only the Madge that from the first he had 
felt she could be, some day? Paul was in no 
doubt on that point ; and drawing her to him 
again, he kissed her as he had never kissed 
her before. 

After which she disclosed to him her house- 
keeping plot. “And there are so many other 
things I want to tell you about,” she said 
“ Only wait till I change this hateful dress, 
and then we’ll have a good, long talk.” 

She rose and ran into the next room, the 
truth being that she was in doubt whether she 
ought to inform him about Keith’s call that 
evening, at the risk of the violence that might 
result between the two men ; her object in 
leaving Paul being as much to gain time to 
consider more calmly the best course for her 
to follow as it was to change her dress. Poor 
Madge ! she was right when she said she had 
never done much thinking, and now that she 
was confronted with a problem that seemed to 
16 


242 


The Inlander 


her to require deliberation she felt sorely the 
need of time and composure. 

Paul sat as she had left him, his trip to New 
York and all else, except Madge and his own 
happiness, forgotten. The hour that he had 
lived for had come. Despite the blasting ex- 
perience of his past, the most sanguine dreams 
of his youth and the deepest longings of his 
maturer years had at last found realization. 
Henceforth life for him was, indeed, complete. 

He rose, after a little, and began walking to 
and fro across the room. In the absence of 
Madge he was impelled to some sort of bodily 
motion as an accompaniment to the glorious 
unrest of his brain and heart. 

Once, as he walked, his foot struck against 
something lying on the floor. He paid no 
attention to it at first, but his eyes falling on it 
repeatedly as he passed it, he finally stooped 
and picked it up. It was a glove, a man’s 
glove, and he turned it desultorily in his hand, 
wondering idly how it came there. 

He crossed over to the piano ; and as he was 
about to drop the glove on the instrument his 
extended arm grew suddenly rigid and his 
grasp on the glove tightened. A piece of 
music stood open on the piano before him. 


243 


The Signal 

“Ask her to play Chopin’s Berceuse ; that is 
the signal by which she calls Fletcher Keith 
to her,” were the words he had heard not an 
hour ago. Whose glove was that? Why was 
the Berceuse open and in place on the piano? 
A “ signal ” ? It was verily a signal that 
summoned out of his past all the demons of 
memory to lash him in one mad moment into 
an insane frenzy of doubt and fear. Doubt 
and fear of what? Who can say? What does 
the madman doubt and fear? Did he not 
know that Madge was above all suspicion, as 
surely as he knew that somewhere, on earth or 
beyond, truth lived? But once before he had 
stood on the brink of happiness with a supreme 
faith, and with what result it appalled him to 
remember. There was the glove, and there 
was the Berceuse — and, angels of innocence! 
there was Madge, coming slowly toward him 
in a soft, white wrapper, her beautiful hair 
falling over her shoulders, her face delicately 
aglow with a tender joy, her eyes duskily lumi- 
nous with an infinite love. 

If there is a tutelary deity for such as Paul, 
and it could have made itself heard by him 
at this moment, it must have been in words 
something like these, — • 


244 


The Inlander 


“ Quick and sure ; for now is the crisis of 
your life, and it is in your hands. Whatever 
you have been, whatever you have hoped to 
be, this moment must decide what you are to 
be through all your future.” 

It was over. “ Madge,” Paul asked, with a 
forced precision and calm, “ will you not play 
for me ? ” 

Then it was that this deity must have 
added, — 

‘‘Farewell, once lofty-souled youth. The 
fiends that beset such as you have won. For 
as you spoke you uttered the one blasphemy 
against woman, wife, and, most of all, against 
your own manhood ; and even as you spoke, 
you knew it.” 

Madge glided up to him with a faint smile 
on her lips and fondly took his hand. 

“ Yes, if you wish me,” she answered softly. 
“What shall I play?” seating herself at the 
piano and placing his hand, which she held in 
her own, caressingly upon her shoulder. 

“ This,” replied Paul, in a low voice, and 
with a white face which she did not see. 

Madge withdrew her hand from his and 
dropped it to the keys, at the same time 


The Signal 245 

turning her eyes to the music which he had 
indicated. 

“No! no! not that!” rising suddenly and 
tremulously, her face as white as his own. 

“ Why not that? ” 

“ Oh ! I — I think it detestable. Would n’t 
you like something else?” abruptly beginning 
to search through the music on the piano with 
nervous, hurrying hands. 

“ Since when have you thought it detest- 
able? Madge, I prefer you should play 
this.” 

There was that in his voice which she had 
never heard before, and which caused her to 
discontinue at once her aimless rummage of 
the music and to turn her troubled, wondering 
eyes full upon him. 

“I — can’t,” she said, almost in a whisper. 

“ Play it.” 

There was no mistaking the command now, 
and it struck Madge dumb. She could not 
have answered him if she would. With dilated 
eyes and half-parted lips, she could only 
stand and gaze at him in helpless silence. 

“Then I will,” he said, stepping to the 
piano. 

“ Oh, no ! no ! ” She found speech in a 


The Inlander 


246 

beseeching, terrified wail, and grasped his arm 
to stay it. “ Wait ! I will tell you why, Paul ! ” 

He pushed her away and began playing the 

Berceuse . 

As he did so, Madge quailed and shrank 
from him, sinking weakly for a second against 
a chair; then recovering and drawing herself 
to her height, she stood mute and pale, her 
eyes fastened on Paul, as if under a spell of 
horror, while he gently touched the keys. 

A moment more, and the door was opened 
from the corridor, and Fletcher Keith, with a 
light, rapid step, entered the room. 

Paul was on his feet in an instant, but Madge 
never stirred nor took her staring eyes from 
him as he turned and, deathly calm, confronted 
the intruder. 

Keith, suddenly sobered, bowed. “ I beg 
pardon; I — ” 

“You have come for your glove, perhaps,” 
Paul said with preternatural quietness ; “ you 
will find it on the piano.” 

Keith hesitated a moment, then went to the 
piano and picked up the glove. 

“ Mr. Rodman,” he began, facing Paul again, 
“ I certainly owe both Mrs. Rodman and 
yourself an apol — ” 


247 


The Signal 

Paul checked him with a gesture. “ I will 
see you downstairs in five minutes, if you 
please,” he said. 

“ Very well, sir,” Keith assented, and with a 
slight bow left the room. 

Paul, not once looking at Madge where she 
stood, motionless and silent, went into the 
next room, placed a pistol in his pocket, and 
got his overcoat, hat, and travelling-bag. As 
he passed through the parlor again, he knew 
that Madge was now seated, and he felt that 
her eyes followed him ; but he walked on into 
the corridor and closed the door behind him 
without a word and without turning his head 
toward her. 


XXIII 


MERELY TO KILL A MAN OR BE KILLED 

“ Mr. Keith just left word that he would be 
in the billiard-room, Mr. Rodman,” a bell boy 
informed Paul as he reached the lobby. 

Keith, who was seated in one of the big 
leather chairs, smoking a cigar, rose and stood 
waiting as Paul entered the otherwise deserted 
billiard-room. 

Paul went up to him, and the two men 
faced each other for a moment in silence. 

“ I think,” Paul said grimly, “ that there is 
no occasion for any publicity in the settlement 
that is to be between us.” 

Keith nodded. “ That must be as you pre- 
fer,” he replied. “ But first you must let me 
tell you that you have made a terrible mistake 
if you believe that anybody but myself is to be 
blamed for what happened to-night; that Mrs. 
Rodman had anything to do with — 99 

“Stop ! ” Paul ordered peremptorily. “This 
is an affair between you and myself alone. 


Merely to Kill or be Killed 249 

No one else is to be brought into it. And 
don’t you make the mistake of expecting that 
anything a man like you can say is worth 
listening to, or will be listened to.” 

Keith’s eyes seemed to grow smaller and 
more fixed as he kept them on Paul. It was 
now steel against steel. 

“ Very well then, damn you ! If there is 
anything to be said, say it yourself.” 

“ I had intended leaving for New York to- 
night,” Paul declared. “It occurs to me that 
the railroad runs through some wild and lonely 
regions in the Alleghanies, and that none 
offers greater privacy than that around Probyn, 
where I met you hunting a year or two ago. 
If you will join me there, I will get off at 
Probyn.” 

“ That will be agreeable to me.” 

Paul looked at his watch. “ There is yet 
nearly an hour to catch this train. If you will 
manage it, we shall save time.” 

“ There need be no occasion for delay. 
We shall reach Probyn by the same train.” 

Paul, nodding his satisfaction, turned and left, 
going directly to the station, where he took 
his sleeper. 

He declined to have his berth made up, but 


The Inlander 


250 

sat crouched against the cushion, staring 
stolidly at the plush opposite. 

His eyes never varied their one focus until 
the train moved out, although he knew when 
Keith got on the same sleeper, hesitated, and 
passed through to the next. 

For the rest of the night and throughout the 
next day Paul sat there in his section of the 
car, rarely changing his position. Sometimes 
his eyes were fixed on vacancy ; sometimes on 
a newspaper, but still on vacancy; sometimes 
they were closed, though never in sleep. It 
was as if his physical functions were suspended. 
He did not get sleepy, hungry, or thirsty. 
His body had merely become a part of the 
inert matter around him over which the train 
rumbled. The one living thing in it all was 
the engine, — life throbbing, grinding, cleaving 
through death. Occasionally he saw it as it 
plunged around a curve, a grimy bolt of in- 
vincible vitality, superb in its beauty and 
power, the living driving on to the living, 
to the same unceasing purpose that wheels 
the planets in their orbits, and ever leaving 
him behind among the dun earth and rot- 
ting rock over which it sped, yet leaving him 
glorying dully in its mighty force, as an atom 


Merely to Kill or be Killed 251 

of the dust whirled in its wake might glory 
in it. 

Again, the pulse of this mighty force beat- 
ing through his brain seemed the pulse that 
stirred interminably the current of the seething 
and sullen fury within him, and mockingly 
prevented his mind from sinking into the 
lethargy of his body. Nor did this pulse 
cease during the hours when the engine stood 
still, waiting the removal of a freight wreck 
from the track. The long stop in the woods, 
which so chafed with impatience many of the 
other passengers, had no effect on him. It 
did not matter to him whether the train was 
on time or losing time, moving or standing. 
Nothing could matter much to one who had 
nothing ahead of him except merely to kill 
a man or be killed by him. That one little 
signal light of purpose, burning in the eternal 
blackness of the measureless void which was 
to be his future, living or dead, was so trivial 
in comparison with the void itself that it was 
of no consequence whether he reached the 
light a few hours sooner or later. 

He reached it sooner than he had expected. 
Early that night, as the train was spinning along 
the crest of the Alleghanies, he got up from his 


252 


The Inlander 


seat and made his way through the rear car to 
the back platform. As he stepped out on it 
and closed the door, he saw that a man was 
already standing on the platform, leaning 
against the end of the coach and smoking a 
cigar. The glance that showed it was Keith 
left an instantly formed purpose with Paul 
Rodman. Turning from Keith, he made a 
swift survey of the scene. Before and around 
him the great domes of the mountains 
stretched away in billow after billow, magni- 
fied and mystified in the splendor of the full 
moon which rode among them. The rails 
glistened out along a ledge that was sometimes 
a natural shelf, sometimes cut from the moun- 
tain wall. On one side he could have leaned 
over and touched the lichened rock of this 
wall, while on the other he could see sheer 
down into dark chasms and ravines. He rec- 
ognized this section of the road. There was a 
long stretch of such track here. 

He turned again to Keith. 

“ It has just occurred to me that there is no 
need of our stopping at Probyn,” he said. 

“ No?” Keith asked, eying him curiously. 

“ One of us might fall off the platform here.” 

Keith did not answer for a little. “Yes, 


Merely to Kill or be Killed 253 

I see/’ he then said, removing the cigar from 
his lips. 

“ It would be much preferable to the Probyn 
plan. There would be no gossip. It would 
simply be an accident of travel.” 

“ That is plausible,” Keith responded after a 
short interval of reflection ; “ and the one who 
did n’t fall off would not be bothered by any 
meddlesomeness of the law.” 

“ If you are not acquainted with the road 
along here, you ought to know that it is pretty 
much like this for a mile or two yet; and that 
while a man falling off on that side would be 
apt to be dashed to pieces on the rocks, there 
could hardly be any doubt as to the result of 
a fall on this side, a hundred feet or so into the 
ravine.” 

“ I see. To make a perfect fall it should be 
on the ravine side.” 

“ I think we understand each other now.” 

Paul took a step nearer Keith and waited ; 
Keith tossed his cigar away; two pale, set 
faces confronted a moment in the moonlight ; 
then the men grappled. 

Paul’s words had been cooler than he was. 
He was fiercely aggressive on the instant. He 
threw himself with all his power on Keith, hurl- 


254 


The Inlander 


ing him against the wall of the car and grip- 
ping around him the cables of his arms until 
Keith’s ribs would have been crushed into his 
heart if he had known less what he was about. 

For the first minute Keith was warily on the 
defensive. The lock of the two was never 
broken, but twice Paul slung Keith from the 
wall of the car to the rail of the platform, 
and twice Keith, with a well-timed adroitness, 
swung back to his base against the car, on the 
momentum of Paul’s desperate effort. 

The advantage to this point was with Keith. 
If he could keep up his tactics, they would 
ultimately place Paul at his mercy. No hu- 
man being could long subject his powers to 
such a tremendous tax as Paul was doing 
without exhausting them. 

Paul, poising himself for two seconds in the 
middle of the platform, steeled every sinew 
for another onslaught. He drove the breath 
from Keith’s body with the embrace of a boa, 
and then, suddenly crouching and lifting for- 
ward, wrenched Keith from the wall. Keith 
tried his old trick, but was too slow this time. 
Paul, catching his balance between Keith and 
the car, straightened and bore over on him 
before he could right himself, and Keith went 


Merely to Kill or be Killed 255 

down across the railing of the platform as if a 
bowlder from the mountain had fallen on him. 
Paul could have shoved him off easily, but in- 
stead he clutched him by the collar and jerked 
him back. Keith had been forced across the 
railing on the cliff side of the track; Paul 
pulled him back and pushed him toward the 
ravine side. 

But Keith, recovering himself in the mean 
time, was now steady on his feet again, and 
planting his shoulder against Paul’s stood rig- 
idly immovable. 

Each knew now that the time had come. 
Each adjusted and tightened his hold on the 
other. Each made sure of his footing and 
gathered his breath. Shoulder to shoulder, 
hip to hip, each set his joints and tautened his 
muscles for the final test. No mere trickery 
or cleverness could win now. It was pound 
against pound, will against will, man against 
man. 

No word passed their lips, which nothing 
had escaped throughout the struggle, except 
stertorous breathing and occasionally the 
harsh guttural deep in the throat of the wild 
beast. Even their breathing now seemed to 
have ceased; and as they stood thus braced 


The Inlander 


256 

against each other in the moonlight, their 
jaws clamped, the veins on their necks and 
temples swollen welts, their eyes straining 
protuberantly, they were absolutely motionless 
except for the slow titanic convulsions of the 
thews, like those sometimes seen on the pin- 
ioned body swung from a gallows, and there 
was no sound save the rhythmic roll of the car 
wheels and the panting stress of the engine far 
ahead, which seemed to be the respiration of 
this death struggle. 

For twenty seconds they must have stood 
thus buttressed against each other. Neither 
had yet yielded the inch nor weakened the 
ounce that must surely mean the end, but one 
must inevitably do it before twenty heart-beats 
more. Then, as each nerved himself for the 
last strain when he knew that something 
must bend or break, the car lurched suddenly 
around a curve, Keith’s foot slipped, and the 
two, locked together, went over into the ravine. 


XXIV 


AMONG THE BUCKWALTERS 

It is not proposed to invade the seclusion of 
Madge Rodman during the weeks that fol- 
lowed Paul’s departure, further than to say 
that there were long nights of tears in the 
darkness, long days of alert expectation of a 
letter, a telegram, a footstep; a face thinner 
from the protracted tension of uncertainty and 
fear; eyes, which had never lost the startled, 
stricken bewilderment that had come into 
them as Paul began to play the Berceuse , 
growing bigger and wearier, as time passed, 
with the cruel mystery they could not fathom ; 
moments of suddenly summoned pride, pas- 
sionate rebellion, and brave resolution, only 
to collapse as suddenly in agonized humility 
and prayer. But as the days lengthened into 
weeks and brought no message or tidings, 
such transitions became less frequent and less 
violent, giving way to at least an apparent 
calm, that was at once the stamp of mental 
17 




The Inlander 


258 

and physical exhaustion, and of a constant 
foreboding, settling daily toward a conviction, 
of perpetual hopelessness. 

Paul’s prolonged and unexplained absence 
was having other effects in Louisville than 
to drive hope and youth out of a girl’s face. 
The first week after Paul left, Drewdie 
Poteet, at the office of the Fluor-spar Com- 
pany, thought nothing of it except that Paul 
was detained in New York by the business 
which had taken him there. By the end of 
the second week, when a letter and a tele- 
gram had failed to find Paul in New York, 
Drewdie began to ask himself questions, and 
being unable to answer them satisfactorily 
called Barney Carruthers into consultation. 
The result of this was that Drewdie, who had 
failed to make inquiries of Madge for fear of 
alarming her, went immediately to see her, 
returning with the report that she had heard 
nothing from Paul, that “she seemed awfully 
done up,” and that she wanted Barney Car- 
ruthers at once. 

What Barney learned at that interview with 
Madge he did not disclose, but when he came 
back to the Fluor-spar office he was walking 
more swiftly than Drewdie had ever known 


Among the Buckwalters 259 

him to walk, and there were two little whit- 
ish spots on his cheek-bones, which Drewdie 
had seen before when Barney was greatly 
excited. 

“I ’m going to hunt for him,” Barney in- 
formed Drewdie Poteet. “I ’ll post you as to 
where I am, and you let me know if anything 
turns up. In the mean time you keep your 
mouth shut. All you need to know is that 
he has gone to New York on business, and 
that he has not notified you when he will 
return; and you don’t need to know that ex- 
cept when you are questioned.” 

The trail that Barney Carruthers took led 
him to New York, but he could find no trace 
of Paul there, though he did discover that 
Fletcher Keith had sailed for Liverpool two 
weeks before. On the second day after 
Barney’s arrival in New York, he received 
a telegram from Drewdie Poteet reporting 
that there were ugly rumors in Louisville 
regarding Paul and the Fluor-spar Company, 
and that there were symptoms of an impend- 
ing panic among the stockholders. Barney 
at once employed a private detective to con- 
tinue quietly the search for Paul Rodman, 
and hastened back to Louisville. 


260 


The Inlander 


He found that Drewdie’s telegram was not 
an exaggeration. Not only was there perco- 
lating Main and Fifth streets irresponsible 
gossip about Paul’s absence, involving the 
solvency of the Fluor-spar Company and even 
the integrity of Paul, but The Runabout had 
published this paragraph, which, though it was 
bare of names, needed none to make it explicit 
among those it was intended to affect : — 

“ There are indications of a coming crash in busi- 
ness circles, and the knowing ones are passing along 
the whisper to stand from under. The concern was 
organized less than two years ago by a young South- 
erner, who somehow gained the confidence of small 
investors, and who has since been rolling pretty high 
in social swelldom. The stock has been a favorite 
recently among local speculators, but the fact that 
it has tobogganed in the last few weeks from around 
130 to only a few points above par is taken as evi- 
dence that they have already caught a whiff of 
something aromatic in Denmark. They will catch 
something more than a whiff when they learn from 
The Runabout this morning that insiders, who have 
been shrewd enough to become outsiders in the 
last two weeks, are our authority for the statement 
that the president of the company has been mysteri- 
ously missing for about three weeks now, and that 
the books will unquestionably show a heavy shortage.’ , 


Among the Buckwalters 261 

The Runabout appeared on Sundays only. 
When Barney Carruthers reached Louisville 
Sunday morning, Drewdie Poteet, already 
well advanced toward the panic, was waiting 
at the station with a copy of the paper. 
Barney read the paragraph twice, the whitish 
spots blossoming out on his cheek-bones. 

“Well, Drewdie, old man,” he said, “we ’ve 
got to put in a big day’s work breaking the 
Sabbath.” 

Barney Carruthers, in addition to his per- 
sonal relations with Paul Rodman, was a 
director of the Fluor-spar Company and also 
its attorney. He knew that whatever was to 
be done to counteract the effect of The Runa- 
bout' s slander should be done before Monday 
morning, and he was determined that every- 
thing that he could do to that end should be 
done. 

“You get the directors together for a meet- 
ing at four o’clock this afternoon; I ’m going 
to try, the first thing, to find out who put this 
thing in The Runabout .” 

But he did not find out that day. The 
editor of The Runabout owed his unbroken 
head to two facts. One was that most of the 
victims of his irresponsible pen did not care 


262 


The Inlander 


to have anything to do with such a creature, 
even to break his head; the other was his 
prudence in keeping his head out of the reach 
of those who had provocation to break it. 
He kept it well out of reach to-day, and 
Barney Carruthers finally abandoned his search 
for the fellow and went to see two or three 
capitalists whom he hoped to interest in 
Fluor-spar. But his visits were all unsuc- 
cessful; and when at four o’clock he entered 
the office of the company to attend the 
directors’ meeting, he had done none of the 
things he had tried to do. 

The directors were all present, — six, in- 
cluding Barney Carruthers. Besides Barney, 
only one, Buckwalter, owned as much stock as 
$1,000; the others, with the exception of 
Slade, the former shanty-boat dweller who 
had been helped in building his house by Paul, 
were either dejected or alarmed. Pritchard, 
a man with a thin, blue face, cleanly shaved 
except for a bunch of hair on the chin, was 
fumbling among the books and asking Drew- 
die Poteet querulous, random questions. 

“ Gentlemen,” Barney Carruthers said, after 
he had shaken hands with the directors and 
cracked a joke at one of the dejected, “I sup- 


Among the Buckwalters 263 

pose you all have an idea what we are here 
for. It is plain that somebody is setting in 
circulation damaging rumors against our com- 
pany. When we find the persons or person 
who inspired the publication in this morning’s 
Runabout , we’ll know howto proceed. The 
Runabout itself does n’t count. It has noth- 
ing, — not even an editor when you want him 
most. The man or men who are at the bot- 
tom of this business are clearly working it 
as a stock-gambling trick, or as a scheme to 
gobble up a majority of the shares and get 
possession of the mines. When we find them, 
it will be easy to spike their guns. But 
meanwhile a great deal of mischief may be 
done, — not really to the company itself, but 
to its stockholders. You know that our stock 
is held largely by people of small means, 
who are most quickly and causelessly fright- 
ened. If some step is not taken to prevent 
it by to-morrow morning, they will be throw- 
ing their stock overboard at any price, and 
you are likely to see the sharks swallowing 
it at as low as 50 by to-morrow afternoon. I 
know that if Paul Rodman were here, his 
first thought would be, not only to save the 
credit of the company, but to prevent this 


264 The Inlander 

needless sacrifice of their stock by the small 
holders.” 

“That’s just the p’int,” rasped Pritch- 
ard. “Where is Rodman? Why ain’t he 
here?” 

“ I shall probably answer that question defi- 
nitely in a day or two. At present it is 
enough for us to know that he left on the 
company’s affairs, and that he can have no 
knowledge of the tactics that are being played 
against him in his absence. It is our busi- 
ness to protect the property until his return. 
My proposition is that we guarantee a fund to 
take at par any stock that may be offered. 
The stock, which was issued at par, sold yes- 
terday at 105; if we put an advertisement in 
to-morrow morning’s papers, say in the name 
of some responsible broker, offering par for 
the stock, nobody will sell for less than par, 
and very few if any, will sell at par. If they 
do, we shall have the stock, which we know 
is worth the money, and which is pretty 
sure to sell 20 or 30 points above par when 
we stop the raid of these scoundrels, and, 
besides, we shall prevent many poor people 
from throwing away stock which they can’t 
afford to lose. What do you say, gentlemen ? 


Among the Buck waiters 265 

I ’m willing to put down every dollar I can 
raise, though that ain’t much. What will 
you do, Mr. Buckwalter? It wouldn’t trouble 
you to guarantee the whole fund.” 

“ Count me out, Carruthers,” answered 
Buckwalter, reclining comfortably in Paul’s 
chair. “I never mix business and charity. 
If Fluor-spar stock is going to sell for 50 
to-morrow, I may take some, but it will be at 
50, not at par. I never pay more than the 
market price for anything.” 

“ But if it would keep your own stock from 
going down, Mr. Buckwalter?” suggested 
Slade. 

“I haven’t enough stock to hurt. Besides, 
if Fluor-spar goes down because lies are 
started against it, it will go up again when 
the truth overtakes them. Your scheme 
won’t work, Carruthers. You can’t get fools 
to put up money to keep other fools from 
losing money.” 

“ That’s my ticket,” Pritchard sang out. 
“No guarantee from me. But say, Carruthers, 
if you raise the money, maybe I ’ll sell you 
my stock at par. It looks a little quare that 
Rodman ain’t here, and nobody knowin’ when 
he’ll turn up.” 


266 The Inlander 

“How much stock have you, Pritchard?’' 
Barney asked. 

“ Oh, well, maybe not so much as more, 
and not so little as less.” 

“Drewdie, turn to the books there and find 
out how much stock Mr. Pritchard owns.” 

“Oh! never mind, Poteet,” Pritchard inter- 
posed. “ If Carruthers means business, I 
reckon I can refresh my memory. I believe 
I ’m the owner of two sheers.” 

“ All right. If you want to sell at par, say 
so.” 

“Well, I ’ll let you know to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow will be too late — for you.” 

“Oh, well, I reckon I’ll resk it a while 
longer. ” 

“ Then understand one thing, Pritchard. 
You are a director of this company. If you 
know anything wrong or suspect anything 
wrong, it’s your duty to say so, and say how 
and why. But you must say it only to the 
board. Loose talk outside is the trouble 
already, and bear in mind that the loose 
talkers are going to be run down, and that 
when they are, something unpleasant is going 
to happen to them. Is there any other gentle- 
man who will come in on my proposition, or is 


Among the Buckwalters 267 

there anybody who has any other proposition 
to make ? ” 

Nobody spoke until finally Slade got up 
from his chair. 

“Mr. Carruthers,” he said, though he was 
looking at Pritchard, “ I ain’t got but a little, 
but you can put me down for my last cent. 
I ’m not afraid that anything Paul Rodman’s 
behind ain’t worth par. And when them 
loose talkers are caught, I know two or three 
boys down in my neighborhood who want to 
have a hand in what happens to them.” 

“ There’s another p’int,” resumed Pritch- 
ard, contemptuously ignoring Slade. ‘‘The 
books shows there ’s a big note due putty soon. ” 
“Yes,” replied Barney, “secured by a 
mortgage and now held by Judd Oxnard, who 
declines to renew.” 

“ What provision has been made to pay it ? ” 
“You may have noticed a pretty consider- 
able item of United States bonds. They have 
been set aside for that purpose.” 

“ And where is them bonds ? ” 

“ Have you looked in that old cigar-box on 
the mantel there? I believe that is where 
Paul keeps the stray bonds and things, espe- 
cially on Sunday.” 


268 


The Inlander 


“ I see the bonds was took in on April io. 
Poteet tells me that Rodman left town on 
that very night. Now, gentlemen, as a 
director of this company, I demand to know 
where is them bonds and where is Paul 
Rodman ? ” 

Slade, hot-faced, sprang to his feet again, 
but Barney Carruthers laid a detaining hand 
on him and stepped between him and 
Pritchard. 

“As a director of this company,” he said, 
“ I tell you that the note will be paid 
promptly when due. If you have a personal 
curiosity to know the exact whereabouts of the 
bonds and Paul Rodman, you might sell a 
few shares of your stock, and organize a 
search expedition. Gentlemen, I move that 
we appoint Pritchard a committee of one to 
find those bonds and Rodman, at his own 
expense, even if he has to go to the North 
Pole or to the end of his stock to do it.” 

There was a general laugh, and Pritchard 
surrendered. 

“Well,” he concluded, “if you say the 
mortgage will be paid promptly, I reckon 
that’s enough.” 

The meeting adjourned soon afterward, the 


Among the Buckwalters 269 

majority of the directors agreeing that noth- 
ing could be done except to trace the libels 
against the company to their source and take 
such action then as might be expedient. 

“ We ’d better not have got them together,” 
Barney Carruthers said, as he and Drewdie 
Poteet sat gloomily in the office after the 
others had left. “It’s done no good and 
probably some harm.” 

“Yes, it started that row of Pritchard’s 
about the mortgage and the bonds. Where 
do you suppose those bonds are, Barney?” 

“I pass,” meditatively. 

“And Rod?” 

“Ditto.” 

“ And how is that mortgage to be paid ? ” 

“Ditto.” 

“What did you mean when you said it 
would be paid promptly?” 

“A cold bluff.” 

Drewdie laughed slightly. “I thought so; 
but you did it so well I almost believed you.” 

“ I don’t know any more than you do how it 
is to be paid,” Barney added. “But there’s 
one thing certain : it ’s got to be paid, 
Drewdie Poteet, if you and I have to go out 
and hold up a train to get the money.” 


270 


The Inlander 


“ It will be worse than The Runabout stuff 
if it becomes known that we default on that 
note, as it will when suit is brought to fore- 
close the mortgage.” 

“ Worse! Of course. But we’ve got two 
weeks or more to raise that money, and we ’ve 
got only until to-morrow morning to prevent 
this panic in Fluor-spar, and the slander of 
Rod that would go with it.” 

“ What would n’t I give,” Drewdie sighed, 
“ if I only had what I paid for that old skate, 
Doublequick ! ” 

Barney laughed. “ I reckon he was worth 
the money to you in experience.” 

“ I ’ve still got a little Fluor-spar stock. 
Maybe I could sell it, or borrow something 
on it.” 

“To throw it on the market now is just 
what you must n’t do, and you can’t borrow 
on it unless we can hold the market steady, 
and to hold the market steady is what we 
want with the money. It ’s like the dog try- 
ing to stop himself from whirling around by 
catching his tail, which he can’t reach.” 

“ What ’s to be done ? ” 

“I’m going to try again,” Barney answered, 
slapping on his hat. “I know two or three 


Among the Buckwalters 271 

more men with money who ought to be will- 
ing to do something for Rod.” 

“It won’t work. Old Buckwalter was 
right; it is not business.” 

Barney spent the rest of the afternoon see- 
ing those two or three men, and yet others. 
He left the last and walked slowly away with 
his hands in his pockets and his head bent, 
tired and disgusted. 

“It’s no good,” he grunted. “They are 
all Buckwalters. They are all business men. 
Poor old Rod ! ” 


XXV 


AN ARRIVAL AT TWIN MOUNTAIN 

Fletcher Keith and Paul Rodman prob- 
ably owed their lives to the length of their 
struggle on the car platform. When it ended 
with both of them going over, the train had 
passed the worst of the perilous stretch of 
track. The ravine where they fell had be- 
come shallow, and its rim was thick with 
mountain laurel, which broke their fall. 

Keith, badly jolted, picked himself up after 
a little and took his bearings. He was at 
the mouth of the ravine, which extended, a 
long splotch of darkness, in the moonlight. 
Winding up to its entrance, and then skirt- 
ing its far side, was a rough wagon road, a 
bare patch of which he could see here and 
there down the mountain slope. Fifteen feet 
above him, apparently resting on the tops of 
the laurel, the ends of the cross-ties marked 
the course of the railway. A few steps below 
him the still form of Paul Rodman was lying. 


An Arrival at Twin Mountain 273 

Keith went down to him, and kneeling ex- 
amined the body. The heart was still beating. 

“Here’s luck!” Keith said, rising. “Off 
here in the mountains, with the whole night be- 
fore me, and a half-dead lunatic on my hands.” 

Keith stood and looked down at Paul 
doubtfully. It would be easy enough to leave 
him if he were dead. Ten minutes before, 
Keith had done his utmost to kill him; but 
that was a different thing from abandoning 
him here in his present condition. 

Keith went over to the wagon road at the 
edge of the ravine and scanned the mountain 
side. It was not so bad as he had feared. 
There was a light plainly visible not more 
than half a mile down the road, and he imme- 
diately set out toward it. 

He found it burning in the window of a 
long building with a balcony running around 
it. A negro was sitting on a horse-block, 
yelling at a dog that had been barking furi- 
ously since Keith had got within a hundred 
yards of the gate. 

“ What place is this ? ” Keith asked the 
negro. 

“Dis Twin Mountain Springs, boss.” 

“ Is there a doctor in the neighborhood? ” 

18 


274 


The Inlander 


“Dr. Ward, he here. He live here.” 

Dr. Ward proved to be the lessee of the 
Twin Mountain Springs. The first thing 
that Keith learned from him was that he was 
not ready for guests yet, his season not open- 
ing till June; but when Keith explained that 
his friend was disabled from a fall among the 
rocks, the whole of Twin Mountain Springs 
was at his service; the negro was ordered to 
get out the wagon; and the three soon had 
Paul lying in one of the rooms of the long 
building. 

Dr. Ward reported that it was not necessa- 
rily a dangerous case, unless “complications” 
should follow, — a few broken ribs and an ugly 
knock on the head. Paul was unconscious or 
under the influence of opiates through the 
night, and early next morning Keith left for 
the nearest railroad station, after telling the 
doctor who his patient was. 

“I don’t think he would want you to let 
his people know about this business, Doctor,” 
Keith said in parting; “and my advice is that 
you don’t do it until he wishes you to, unless, 
of course, his condition should become very 
serious.” 


XXVI 


UNDER THE CRAGS 

The fourth week of his stay at Twin Moun- 
tain Springs had begun before Paul, on a 
sunny afternoon in early May, left his room 
and hobbled out to a bench on the wide lawn. 

Dr. Ward and his family had taken good 
care of their solitary guest; and though the 
case had been more stubborn than the doctor 
had expected at first, he did not think it 
necessary to write to the address that Keith 
had left him. He mentioned the matter to 
Paul once, and so emphatic was his patient’s 
interdiction of any communication with Louis- 
ville that the doctor never brought up the 
question again. “ I will write all that is to be 
written,” Paul had added. "I do not wish to 
be bothered by any business or friends.” 

“Now I’m mighty doubtful,” the doctor 
said afterward, in talking of this to his wife, 
“if the poor fellow has any friends. Cer- 
tainly that one that brought him here wasn’t 


The Inlander 


276 

any great shakes of a friend. And the worst 
of it is that he don’t seem to want any friends. 
I ’m sure he don’t care a rap whether he gets 
well or dies. I never see a man as far be- 
yond interest in anything, or so cut off to 
himself by himself. He ’s just gettin’ well 
in spite of himself, simply because he’s got 
a good constitution and good blood. It ’s a 
funny case, all around.” 

“I suppose he must ’a’ been unfortunate 
in love, don’t you reckon?” suggested Mrs. 
Ward. 

“Well, maybe so, though I ’m treatin’ him 
for broken ribs instead of broken heart. If I 
was supposin’, I ’d say it was somethin’ worse 
than love. I don’t see how love could account 
for them two wanderin’ around here in the 
mountains, without any baggage, goin’ no- 
where and cornin’ from nowhere, as far as 
I ’ve been able to make out.” 

“At any rate,” the good lady insisted, 
“you can see he is a born gentleman.” 

“Oh, yes, he’s a gentleman. That makes 
it all the harder to understand. If he were a 
highwayman or a hobo, it would n’t seem so 
unnatural like.” 

“I still believe it’s love, David; and I 


Under the Crags 


2 77 

would n’t be surprised if the other gentleman 
has gone off to tell Mr. Rodman’s sweet- 
heart, so that she will be sorry and come 
and nurse him.” 

“ And you ’ll have it windin’ up with a 
weddin’, hey?” laughed the doctor. '‘But 
you don’t shake my opinion that it ’s some- 
thin’ a long way worse than any love. I ’d 
say that when he fell on them rocks out there 
he tumbled off of Mars, at least. He don’t 
seem to belong to this world.” 

Paul, sunning himself on the bench this 
afternoon, — which was the Saturday following 
the Sunday of the Fluor-spar directors’ meet- 
ing, — was wondering listlessly why Drewdie 
Poteet had not written to him about Fluor- 
spar affairs. Surely he had written Drewdie 
long ago. He remembered just what was in 
the short letter, what an eternity it had taken 
him to write it, and how he had marvelled at 
the peculiar phosphorescent glow of the ink 
as it left his pen. He remembered also, 
when he had handed the letter to Dr. Ward 
to mail, what an uncanny leer had been on 
the man’s face. Of course he had written to 
Drewdie Poteet, unless — was it, or was it 
not ? — the letter was one of those products of 


The Inlander 


278 

his delirium which seemed so real long after 
his mind was clear. 

Dr. Ward rode up, and dismounting came 
across the lawn toward Paul. 

“Here! here! my hearty,” he said cheerily 
but authoritatively; “this won’t do. It ’s too 
early for you to be out here on this grass. 
You ’re just in condition to pick up a case of 
pneumonia now.” 

He took the arm of Paul, who, without 
objecting, walked back into the house with 
him. 

“Doctor,” he said, “I was just trying to 
think whether I wrote and gave you a letter 
soon after I came here.” 

“Never a letter; not a line to anybody.” 

Paul felt that he would have smiled at this 
if he had not been too tired. 

“No matter,” he answered; “I will write 
to-day.” 

“Here’s a New York paper,” the doctor 
said, as he left Paul in his room. “Got it 
from the train a little while ago. It ’s two 
or three days old, but that ’s fresh to us up 
here.” 

Paul wrote a brief letter to Drewdie Poteet, 
giving him some directions about Fluor-spar 


Under the Crags 279 

matters and ending with the assurance that 
he would be in Louisville the following week, 
in ample time to pay off Oxnard’s note. 

Then he took up the newspaper, and open- 
ing it absently, saw flaring across the top of 
one of the columns, in heavy Gothic capitals, — 
“MADGE CABANIS.” 

He did not start or shrink. But he was 
suddenly very still, and his face whitened and 
hardened as the insolently bold letters held 
his eyes. 

He stared at the characters until they were 
merged with each other in a formless blotch, 
and the paper became unsteady from the very 
tightness with which he was clutching it. 

He turned and spread the sheet on the 
table by his side, and leaning over, read the 
“pyramid ” that followed. It was : — 

“ This Charming Young Actress Gives Up 
Society to Return to the 
Stage.” 

Paul rose slowly, rigidly, from his chair, 
his fist knotted, his eyes blazing. 

“ By — God!” 

A great rage surged over him, distorting 
and blackening his face. 


280 


The Inlander 


“ She shall not ! ” he said, in a voice savage 
in its harshness. 

He jammed on his hat and went to the 
door, fierce determination in his stride, as if 
it were but a short walk between him and 
Madge. 

In the doorway he stopped, confronted by 
the wall of the mountains and the twin crags 
looming grimly down on him. As grim 
as the mountains themselves, the prepos- 
terousness of his passion also confronted him 
suddenly, and on the swift reaction, he leaned 
against the door-jamb in physical weakness. 

What was Madge Cabanis to him ? What 
did it matter now what she did ? What right 
had he — what right did he wish — to inter- 
fere with her? 

He stood there for minutes, watching the 
shadows deepen on the slopes of the moun- 
tains. On the surface now he was as calm 
as they, though a little before he had passed 
through some such paroxysm as that which 
once may have upheaved their monumental 
chaos. 

When he went back to his seat by the table 
it was with firm steps. He took up the 
paper, and moving his chair in order to get 


Under the Crags 281 

the best light deliberately read the item which 
had inspired the startling head-lines. 

It was this, — one of several paragraphs in 
a column of stage news and gossip: — 

“That Madge Cabanis will return to the boards 
the coming season will be welcome news to those 
who watched the work of this pretty and promising 
young actress during the two years she was with 
Manager Joyce. Manager Joyce is just back from 
the South and authorizes the announcement that he 
has engaged her to star in a second Babette company 
which he contemplates putting on the road in Sep- 
tember. He is much elated at securing Miss Ca- 
banis for the title role. He says she was born to play 
Babette , and he predicts that her success in it will 
be second only to that of Florence Falk herself. 
Mr. Joyce is not without some practical basis for 
his confidence. About a year ago Miss Cabanis 
played Babette for a week during Miss Falk’s illness 
in Buffalo, and she undoubtedly scored a hit in that 
city. So pleased with her performance was Mr. 
Joyce that he tried to sign her last summer for a 
second company, but she declined in order to marry 
a young business and society man of Louisville. It 
was freely prophesied at the time that she was too 
much attached to the stage to remain away from it 
permanently. The usual result of such marriages 
has followed quickly, and Miss Cabanis returns to 
the profession of her choice with the added eclat of 


282 


The Inlander 


a year of brilliant leadership in the most select circles 
of Southern society.” 

Paul laid the paper on his knee, from which 
it slipped, without his noting it, to the floor. 
He sat, motionless, looking through the open 
door upon the solemnity of the circling moun- 
tains. He sat, hopeless, looking quietly at 
the end. 

And this was the end, — the end of every- 
thing that should have ended forever with 
him years before; the end between Madge 
Caban is and himself; part of it there in the 
garish types of the public press, part of it 
here in the perpetual silence of his own undy- 
ing death. 

But why was not that end complete on the 
night he had turned from her and walked 
away? Why should her doings or not-doings, 
her goings or comings, affect him one way or 
another ? Why should this last step of hers 
back into the world from which it had been 
his happiness to think he had delivered her, 
have power now to cause him another pang? 
It was but the public sundering of their lives, 
which nothing could sunder wider than the 
chasm that had opened between them on the 
night he had left her. Was he so base, so 


Under the Crags 283 

weak, so grovelling, as to cling to her yet 
with a single tendril of passion or sentiment? 

A great wave of rebellious tenderness and 
longing for her swept over him, ebbing almost 
instantly in stern self-resentment and self- 
contempt. His compressed lips parted in one 
stifled moan, and bending his forehead to the 
table he shuddered as with cold. 


/ 


XXVII 


BARNEY CARRUTHERS HAS HIS SAY 

He did not lift his head until heavy foot- 
steps on the balcony outside stopped at his 
room. Looking up, he saw the red face of 
Barney Carruthers puckering at him from the 
doorway. 

'‘You old hippopotamus you!” Barney 
grinned. 

“ Hullo, Barney, old man ! ” Paul said as 
he rose, lighting up for the first time in all 
these weeks. 

They met halfway between the table and 
the door. If they had been women, they 
might have fallen on each other and wept. 
As it was, they clumsily locked hands for a 
second and looked into each other’s eyes. 

“Well, I be hornswoggled ! ” said Barney 
Carruthers. 

“You ought to be, for coming where you 
are not asked ! ” answered Paul Rodman. 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 285 

They dropped into chairs and smiled at 
each other like sheep. Then Barney put his 
feet on the table, and took out his pipe. 

“Got any decent tobacco up here?” he 
asked. “I’m out.” 

“Not a bit in the house. But Dr. Ward 
smokes cubebs, I believe.” 

“ Then the first train away from these parts 
catches me ! ” 

“Better try the cubebs. You ’ve smoked 
everything else.” 

“Thank you, I ’ve plenty. I was in the 
same room once with a cubeb smoker, and I 
reckon I can manage to worry along now on 
what I got of that smoke.” 

There was a pause, during which Barney 
hopelessly replaced his pipe in his pocket. 

“ What ’s going on ? ” Paul asked. “ How ’s 
Drewdie ? ” 

“Spending his substance in hair restora- 
tives now. Drewdie is growing gray from 
the responsibility of running the Fluor-spar 
business.” 

“Why, I left everything in good shape. 
There was nothing but routine in sight.” 

“ It was the things that were out of sight that 
have been bothering Drewdie and the rest of 


286 


The Inlander 


us. The moles have been at work to under- 
mine Fluor-spar since you left.” 

“Judd Oxnard,” said Paul. 

“Judd Oxnard!” bellowed Barney, pound- 
ing his thigh with his fist. “I might have 
known he was the man ! I did half suspect 
it. It ’s not the first time he has used that 
Runabout mudscow in his schemes.” 

“What has he been doing through The 
Runabout ? ” 

Barney Carruthers began rummaging in his 
pockets. 

“ Say, how are you, anyway ? ” he sud- 
denly asked. “About all right again, ain’t 
you ? ” 

“Oh, yes, about. Was out on the lawn 
to-day. ” 

“No fool necks broken, hey?” 

“None, more’s the pity.” 

“Then I reckon you can stand disagreeable 
news. ” 

Paul looked the indifference he felt. Dis- 
agreeable news was of small concern to him 
now. 

Barney gave him a copy of The Runabout 
paragraph that had caused the meeting of the 
Fluor-spar directors the preceding Sunday. 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 287 

Paul read it, and as he refolded it his face 
was cast inflexibly. 

“ I see now that I ought to have put myself 
in communication with Drewdie or you. The 
truth is, I was not quite capable of intelligent 
communication with anybody the first week 
after I got here; and since then I frankly own 
that the thought of Fluor-spar has hardly 
entered my brain. But there ’s one thing 
certain : if people have been scared into sell- 
ing their stock below par while I ’ve been 
away, I’ll make up every cent of the differ- 
ence to them out of my own pocket, if I live 
long enough.” 

“Oh, dry up, Rod! You don’t know what 
you ’re talking about.” 

“ How low has the stock gone? ” 

“Well, last Saturday, a week ago to-day, it 
touched 105.” 

“And since then? ” 

“ Monday there were a few small lots that 
went at par. Tuesday there were no sales 
reported. Wednesday one sale was made at 
107. Thursday it struck no. Yesterday, 
after the publication of a two-line item in a 
morning paper reporting that Mr. Paul Rod- 
man was taking a short rest at Twin Moun- 


288 


The Inlander 


tain Springs, they were bidding 120, with 
none on the market for less than 125. Oxnard 
himself was rushing around trying to buy two 
hundred shares at 120, but he had to pay the 
top notch for it.” 

“ I think I know how Oxnard will use that 
stock. One hundred shares of it he has con- 
tracted to deliver next week at par; the other 
hundred at 90. Tell me how you stopped his 
raid on us.” 

“ That ’s what ! You must n’t think you ’re 
the only person in Louisville that can take 
care of Fluor-spar in a tight squeeze.” 

Barney then told of his failure to find the 
editor of The Runabout . “And I haven’t 
found him yet,” he added. “The fellow heard 
that I was hunting him, and has been hiding 
out all the week. I had one interview with 
him years ago, and he has never liked me 
since.” 

Paul heard a full account of the directors’ 
meeting Sunday afternoon, and of Barney’s 
persevering and futile efforts to enlist men 
in his unbusiness-like scheme to guarantee 
the stock. “I gave it up about six o’clock 
Sunday evening, convinced that there was 
nobody in Louisville who would and could 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 289 

take care of your interests while you were 
absent. But in less than an hour from that 
time I discovered I was wrong. There was 
somebody.” 

“Tom Lusk?” Paul asked. 

“Tom Lusk was the first man I called on 
Sunday morning.” 

“ Preston Talcott ? ” 

“ Preston Talcott not only refused, but was 
one of the few that took advantage of our pro- 
position the next day to unload their stock on 
us at par. ” 

“Then I could never guess.” 

“You oughtn’t to have to guess. You 
ought to know who has saved Paul Rodman’s 
good name when he couldn’t do it himself.” 

“I know of no one except Drewdie and 
you,” Paul answered, smiling at Barney’s 
growing excitement. 

“ I tell you you do ! ” 

Barney was on his feet now and glaring 
down fiercely at Paul. 

“What do you mean, Barney? ” 

Barney raised his arm, and with his most 
impassioned jury gesture brought his fist down 
with a blow upon the palm of his hand. 

“I mean Paul Rodman’s wife!” 

}9 


290 


The Inlander 


It was as if the blow, instead of falling on 
Barney’s palm, had fallen on Paul’s face. 
Every tinge of blood fled from it. 

“ Stop ! ” he said, making a quick motion 
to rise. 

“ You stop! ” 

Barney’s command instantly followed Paul’s, 
and his hand was on Paul’s shoulder, pushing 
him firmly back into the chair. 

“I ’ve got the floor now, Rod,” he added, 
lapsing at once from his jury manner into his 
customary grinning chaff. “ Let me finish ; 
then you can have your turn and throw as 
many fits as you feel like. You see,” taking 
a seat on the table, and getting a purchase 
on his raised knee with his clasped hands, “ I 
was just back from New York last Sunday, 
where I ’d gone looking for you. She had 
sent for me a week before and told me 
enough about a quarrel between you two to 
show me that she was frightened out of her 
wits about you, — seemed to fear you could n’t 
come back, or wouldn’t if you could. I knew 
you well enough to be pretty sure that you 
had gone off to make a fool of yourself; so I 
started after you, to try to trail you, or 
some remnant of you. Sunday, after I had 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 291 

got back to Louisville, and after I had failed 
at everything else that day, I went to the 
hotel to let her know what progress I had 
made in my hunt for you.” 

Paul was now sitting with his elbow on the 
arm of his chair, his head resting against the 
hand that covered his eyes. He made no 
comment or sign as Barney rambled on. 

“ That first time I saw her — when she sent 
for me — she was looking so worn out and 
broken up and so pitifully proud, too, that I 
felt if I could only lay my hands on you, / 
wouldn’t leave a remnant of you; but when I 
saw her Sunday evening she was different. 
She was even more worn out, but she was 
stirred up about that Runabout stuff. Some- 
body — some kind lady in the hotel — had 
taken pains to show her the sheet ; and, after 
all, I believe it was the best thing for her. 
It woke her up and gave her something to do. 
She was set on stopping such attacks on you 
and your business ; and when I told her what 
Drewdie and I had been trying to do all day 
to stop them, she said that my plan, if I 
thought it was the best plan, had to go 
through. She would put it through herself. 
And she did, before I could make up my 


292 


The Inlander 


mind whether I was dreaming or drunk. Oh, 
I tell you, she ’s fine; she ’sa — she ’s a rose 
of Sharon, Rod ! ” 

Barney shifted his hands to his other knee, 
and after giving Paul time to show some sign 
of life, went on : — 

“You never would guess how she did it, 
though. You see, it was this way. That 
theatre man, Joyce, was in town with one of 
his shows, and it seems had tried to get her 
to go back on the stage. She had refused 
outright, but when she understood what I 
wanted to do about Fluor-spar she sent at 
once for Joyce and told him that if he 
would stand by me she would accept his 
offer. ” 

“You didn’t consent to any such folly?” 
asked Paul, with repressed ferocity, at last 
looking up. 

“Didn’t I? Did the hungry duck you’ve 
read about consent to the June-bug? And 
talk about business men! Well, as Drewdie 
Poteet says, that Joyce could get left at the 
post and lose your Louisville business friends 
in the first quarter. By twelve o’clock that 
night he had gone over the books with an 
expert, had decided that he would put up for 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 293 

all the stock offered next day at par, and was 
off to take a look at the mines. Monday 
morning I had a small advertisement in the 
papers bidding, in the name of Gaynor & 
Clay, par for Fluor-spar stock. A few drib- 
lets, as I told you, were turned in on us, but 
the beauty of it was that Oxnard himself sus- 
pected that we were bluffing and tried to 
make us run by letting loose on us all he 
held, — which explains his buying it back 
yesterday at 125. 

“ Joyce showed up again Monday night, and 
was so well satisfied that he not only was 
willing to let the advertisement run on, but 
almost as good as agreed, before he left for 
New York, to pay that note of Oxnard’s and 
take over the mortgage, unless other arrange- 
ments were made by the time it fell due. 
But no more stock came in at par; and after 
Thursday night, when I learned where you 
were and had that little ‘personal * about you 
put in the paper, there was none to be had 
under 125. So you see it ain’t your busi- 
ness men that know all there is to be known 
about business. We outsiders can give them 
pointers sometimes.” 

Paul got up, and laying his hand on 


2 94 


The Inlander 


Barney’s shoulder, said in a voice uneven 
with deep feeling: — 

“Barney, no man ever had a better friend 
than I have in you, and I ’m not going to try 
to thank you, because words are poor and use- 
less between you and me. But I am sorry 
that the matter could not have been arranged 
without bringing — Mrs. Rodman into it.” 

“I’m not; and neither would you be if you 
could have seen the good it did her to be able 
to save the day for you. Besides, she won’t 
have to carry out her bargain to go back to 
play-acting. I made it a condition with 
Joyce that he was to release her if you re- 
turned and didn’t approve, and paid him back 
what he had put up for Fluor-spar. But you 
won’t have to bother about that. He ’s got a 
plump profit on the stock we took in Monday. 
Drewdie and I were in the pool also; but as 
we didn’t amount to anything without Joyce, 
we are going to leave him all the winnings.” 

“Barney,” Paul said, with an evidently des- 
perately determined effort, “I owe you some- 
thing more than the silence I shall maintain 
with every one else. I don’t know how much 
she told you of what you called our quarrel; 
but I must say to you now — I shall never 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 295 

speak of it after this — that there is no one I 
shall ever again call wife.” 

Barney Carruthers slid slowly off the table, 
and taking Paul by the arm led him to the 
lounge, with a slight roughness which might 
have been misunderstood by one who did not 
know the two men well. 

“You come here and lie down, Rod,” he 
ordered. “You are tired out; you’ve been 
up too long.” 

Paul did not resist. He half sat, half lay 
on the lounge, his eyes partially closed in 
weariness. Barney Carruthers drew up one 
of the split-bottomed chairs, and setting his 
foot on it rested his elbow on his knee. 

“Now look here, Rod, it’s my say this 
time. And I do say that considering how 
long and closely you ’ve been hobnobbing 
with me, there ’s no excuse for your knowing 
so little about women; there’s no excuse for 
your not knowing that good women are the 
best things going, and that good women are 
the rule, and the other kind the exception. 
And you know perfectly well — you know it 
this minute, down to your very marrow — that 
there ain’t a better woman on earth or in 
heaven than your wife. You know that if 


The Inlander 


296 

you have thought for an instant that she ever 
did you a conscious wrong, it was you that 
wronged her, and wronged her outrageously. 
And now, Mr. Paul Rodman, I want to give 
you fair warning, that hereafter if it ever gets 
into my head that you have a ghost of a doubt 
that Mrs. Paul Rodman is a thousand times 
too good for any man who ever lived, then 
I ’ll break you into so many pieces that your 
Dr. Ward and all his tribe could n’t tell 
whether you had been a man or a monkey. ” 

Paul opened his eyes with an indulgent 
smile. 

“All right, Barney/’ he said; “we ’ll never 
talk of women.” 

“Yes, we will talk of women. We won’t 
talk of anything else, if I choose. I ’ve got 
to make up a lot of lost opportunity if I teach 
you anything about women in time to do you 
any good in this life.” 

Barney Carruthers shoved the chair aside 
and took an envelope from his pocket. 

“Here, you can read this while I look 
around and try a drink out of the Twin 
Mountain Springs. It ’s from a man who put 
me on the track of you. ” 

Barney tossed him the letter and left the 


Barney Carruthers has his Say 297 

room. Paul glanced at the unfamiliar super- 
scription, and opened the envelope. 

“Say,” said Barney Carruthers, returning 
along the balcony, and poking his head 
through the door, “where could a fellow 
corral that doctor of yours? I reckon I’ll 
have to go up against his cubebs.” 


XXVIII 


DR. WARD LOSES A PATIENT 

Paul found that the envelope contained a 
note, and within that, another envelope. He 
read the note slowly : — 

Louisville, May 9. 

Paul Rodman, Esq., Twin Mountain Springs. 

Sir, — Mr. Carruthers has consented to be the 
bearer of the enclosed letter to you, which other- 
wise I should have delivered in person. In the 
short interview you had with me, just before we left 
for the mountains last month, I attempted to tell 
you that Mrs. Rodman was in no way involved to 
her discredit in the affair which provoked that inter- 
view; but you would not listen to me. That was 
your privilege. You proposed to hold me to ac- 
count, not for the misdoings of others, but of myself. 
But as soon as I had the chance I resolved — not 
because I owed it to you, but to Mrs. Rodman — 
to show you that I alone was to blame. On the 
night of your wretched mistake, as I was passing 
Mrs. Rodman’s apartments, hearing her at the piano, 
I was bold enough, with the help of the champagne 
I had drunk, to enter. I was immediately and in- 


Dr. Ward Loses a Patient 299 

dignantly ordered out, and in obeying that order I 
was again bold enough to announce that I would be 
happy to return at any time I should hear Mrs. Rod- 
man playing that particular selection. As I went 
out I saw Mrs. Oxnard leaving the door. The part 
that she took a few seconds later is fully within your 
knowledge. 

This is the whole truth, and you know it, — not 
because I tell it, or Mrs. Oxnard confirms it, but 
because you know that any construction of that 
night’s occurrences that reflects on Mrs. Rodman 
is bound to be false. 

Very truly yours, 

Fletcher Keith. 

Paul seemed no longer to breathe as he 
held the letter in his hand, staring with dead 
eyes at nothingness. 

Finally, as a breeze stirred through the 
door and whipped the sheet of paper from his 
relaxed fingers, he turned mechanically to the 
other envelope and read : — 

London, April 27. 

Dear Paul, — So you really did ask Madge to 
play the Berceuse! Do you know, I waited at the 
head of the stairs for fully ten minutes that night 
and finally left dreadfully disappointed because you 
did not appear to have thought enough of my word 
to act on my warning. But it seems to have resulted 


3 °° 


The Inlander 


most successfully, after all ; and Fletcher Keith has 
followed me across the Atlantic to get me to tell you 
the true story of it. You always did so exaggerate 
trifles, Paul ! When I met you on the stairs I had 
just heard your Madge ordering Fletcher from the 
room, and Fletcher inviting himself to return when- 
ever she played the Berceuse — so like Fletch, was n’t 
it ? That was the bald fact ; the version I gave you 
was the flower of an artistic imagination and of an 
old and peculiar friendship. I am perfectly willing 
now to give you the bald fact ; for knowing you as 
I do, you dear old silly-billy, I know that it will go 
a thousand times harder with you when it breaks on 
you that you have so horribly insulted Madge Inno- 
cent than it would if you should continue to believe 
that you had only resented the wickedness of Madge 
Indiscreet. And I fear it will go harder still when 
you realize that it remained for such a man as 
Fletcher to convince you that you had thus insulted 
her. 

And now, my dear Paul, let us play quits, and 
when we meet again let it be with a clean score on 
either side, that we may make a new beginning to 
a new friendship. 

Faithfully yours, 

Lucy Arnan Oxnard. 

Science says that probably the greatest 
physical agony one can suffer is that which 
results from the spasmodic clutch of the heart 


Dr. Ward Loses a Patient 301 

by a certain disease of that organ, and surely 
this is credible to those who have seen the 
face of such a sufferer even long after the 
pain itself has passed. Such was Paul’s face 
as he raised himself stiffly, and sitting on the 
side of the lounge, slowly and methodically 
tore the two letters into small bits. 

Then he got up, put on his hat, and glanc- 
ing around the room, as a preoccupied man 
starting on a journey sometimes glances in a 
sightless precaution against overlooking any- 
thing he would take with him, went out and 
closed the door after him. 

Barney Carruthers and Dr. Ward were in 
“the office,” laughing and smoking cubebs; 
but it was with suddenly serious countenances 
that they sprang from their chairs as Paul 
entered. 

“When does the first train pass for Louis- 
ville ? ” Paul asked authoritatively. 

“ What are you doin’ here, Rodman ? ” 
sharply demanded the doctor. “You ought 
to be in bed ! ” 

“I am going to Louisville. Please order 
me a conveyance.” 

“You are foolish. You are in no condition 
to travel, and you won’t be for a week yet. 


3° 2 


The Inlander 


Besides, the train goes by in less than an hour, 
and it would take dangerously hard drivin’ to 
make it.” 

“It must be done. Please don’t lose any 
time.” Paul passed out to the front platform. 
“Here is a buckboard now. This will do.” 

“ It ’s foolhardy! ” the doctor said to Barney 
Carruthers; “we must not allow him to do it. 
It may kill him.” 

“We’d have to kill him to keep him here 
now, Doctor. I know him.” 

The buckboard had brought Barney from 
the station, and the driver was hanging around 
the kitchen, waiting for the supper hour. 
Paul was already untying the hitching rein 
as the doctor and Barney came out on the 
platform. 

Paul was about to get into the vehicle 
when he abruptly returned to the platform 
and handed his pocket-book to Barney, re- 
questing, — 

“ Please settle with the doctor, Barney, 
while I say good-bye to Mrs. Ward.” 

He was back almost immediately, and the 
buckboard rattled away with him, while the 
doctor gazed after him with puzzled, disap- 
proving visage, and Mrs. Ward waved her 


Dr. Ward Loses a Patient 303 

handkerchief to his back when she was not 
dabbing it to her eyes. 

It was, indeed, a hard drive over the rough 
mountain road, and Barney Carruthers soon 
slipped his arm around Paul, to prevent his 
being pitched from the wagon. 

“We don’t want any rebroken ribs to-day,” 
he laughed awkwardly. 

Neither spoke but once after that during 
the drive. At a smooth stretch of the road 
Barney said, — 

“Did I tell you that she’s not in Louis- 
ville now? She left for Tennessee this week, 
to try to get a little rest, and I reckon to get 
out of reach of the gabbling geese at the 
hotel.” 

Paul’s expression did not change. 

“It’s all the same,” he replied. “Go on 
faster,” he ordered the driver. 


XXIX 


A RACE SOUTHWARD 

They caught the train ; and all that night Paul 
lay in his berth, looking out into the brilliant 
solemnity of the mountain sky. His one im- 
pelling thought was to see Madge again, not 
to undo the wrong he had put upon her, — that 
could never be undone, — but to ameliorate as 
far as possible its effect on her by confessing 
its infamy and abasing himself in contrition 
and remorse for the unspeakable outrage she 
had suffered through him. It was for her, not 
for himself, that he was now concerned. His 
own hideous guilt was a thing that could not 
be recalled or eradicated. Nor could it be 
modified by repentance, however poignant. 
Perhaps he might thus help to heal partially 
the wound his brutality had inflicted on her, 
but nothing could lessen the brutality of the 
blow itself. One who falls from man’s estate, 
as he had done, in committing the supreme sin 
against wifehood, falls forever. There is no 


A Race Southward 305 

return to the place which he has forfeited. 
The woman may reach out her hand to him in 
generous pity, but it is to the penitent weak- 
ling, — never again to the strong man who once 
held her respect with her love. Her compas- 
sionate lips may forgive him, but the true wife 
in her cannot forgive, because his is the one 
crime which the true wife cannot forgive and 
still exist. It was not forgiveness that Paul 
expected to ask ; it was atonement, as far as 
was in his power, that he was anxious to make. 

Such was his mental chaos through which, 
all that night, he looked out at the mountain 
stars, the one recurring and consistent strain 
being in the nature of an unformed prayer 
to those infinite spaces that nothing should 
happen to her or to him to prevent his poor 
atonement. 

The train dragged through a long day, held 
back, it seemed to Paul in his tense impatience, 
by the interminable commonplace incidents of 
the journey, — the waiting on the switches ; the 
loafing at the water-tanks; the stops at the 
countless way-stations, with the leisurely ex- 
change of baggage and mail-pouches, the com- 
plaisance of the trainmen, the stolid equability 
of the rural onlookers, the chatter and flurry 
20 


The Inlander 


3°6 

of the local travellers, the extravagance of their 
partings and greetings, and the portentousness 
of their little goings and comings. 

Night again found him in Louisville, but 
with hours to wait before the departure of the 
train which was to take him to Tennessee. 
When he left the hotel for the station at two 
o’clock that morning, Barney Carruthers fol- 
lowed him into the carriage. 

“No, no, Barney!” he protested. “Get 
out and go to bed. There is nothing you can 
do for me at the train, and I ’m fully able to 
look after myself now.” 

“ I ’m not going to worry looking after you 
specially, Rod. I just thought this would be a 
good time to run down to Tennessee myself.” 

“ No ! you must not. I won’t allow it ! ” 

“ You won’t? Refuse to let a man go to see 
his own dad ? How do you expect to manage 
it? Have you chartered the whole train?” 

Paul looked at him a moment with an ex- 
pression which was lost in the imperfect light. 

“Barney,” he said, “you are the finest old fool 
you and I know.” 

Barney whistled a “ rag-time ” bar before he 
replied, — 

“ But I ain’t the biggest one we know.” 


A Race Southward 307 

It was then that Paul, for the first time since 
reading the letters Barney had brought him, 
voluntarily spoke of Madge. 

“Do you think, Barney,” he said uncertainly, 
“ it is possible, after all that has happened, that 
she will, that she can, even see me?” 

“ Rod, if you had asked me such a question 
a long time ago, when I used to call you Polly, 
I ’d have said it was you through and through. 
But I supposed you ’d got over all that moon- 
shine about woman being such a superior 
being to man that the laws of common-sense 
can’t reach from one to the other. It ’s com- 
mon sense to say that when a husband and 
wife have a misunderstanding and the one who 
is to blame is sorry and is anxious to confess it, 
that is just what the other is most anxious shall 
be done. I ain’t going to waste time thinking 
what would happen on any fine-spun theory 
that takes no account of common-sense.” 

Paul knew it was useless to discuss such a 
point with Barney Carruthers, and he said no 
more. 

Only once afterward did he allude to it even 
indirectly. 

It was on the train between Louisville and 
Nashville. As day broke, a halt was made at 


The Inlander 


3°8 

a little station in the fields, and Paul, looking 
through the window of his berth at the kind- 
ling eastern sky, saw darkly silhouetted against 
it the form of a man, with twisted neck and 
projecting tongue, hanging by a rope to a limb 
of a tree. 

“When did that happen?” he heard the 
conductor outside ask of a half-dozen farm- 
hands who were standing off gaping at the 
body. 

“ Las’ night,” one of them replied. “ The 
sher’ff tried to git him on the train, but the 
mob got here ’fo’ the train did.” 

“ The usual trouble? ” inquired the con- 
ductor, with subdued excitement. 

“ Yes. Jeff Turner’s wife.” 

Later Barney Carruthers, facing Paul on the 
opposite seat, asked, with a touch of awe in his 
voice, — 

“Did you see it, back there, — that tree?” 

“Yes.” 

“ The thing ’s taken away my appetite for 
breakfast.” 

Paul was silent for a long time. Then he 
said, in a dull monotone, — 

“ In this country they lynch brutish louts for 
certain crimes against women. There are far 


A Race Southward 


3°9 


blacker crimes of men against their own wives, 
and yet you say that these are the crimes that 
can be glossed over by common-sense.” 

Barney Carruthers did not answer. His 
gaze lingered on the stalwart form of his friend, 
grown gaunt, the sunken cheeks, the deep 
anguish of the long-sleepless eyes. Then Bar- 
ney saw something outside that demanded his 
attention, and putting his head through the 
window he plunged his nose sonorously into 
his handkerchief. 


XXX 


“NO LONGER A DREAM ” 

That afternoon Cousin Jo Cabanis, sitting on 
his veranda steps, hailed Aunt Viny as she 
was grunting her way across the yard, with a 
hatchet in her hand. 

“ Hi-yo, Aunt Viny ! Where you travellin’ 
to now?” 

The old woman stopped and turned toward 
him. 

“ Who, me? ” she said. “ I des gwine down 
to de branch to git me some red-oak bark. I 
feels de need er some bitters powerful bad. 
But I ain’t trabblin’. I let you know I done 
trabblin’, Mahs Jo, sence I went up to dat Chi- 
cawger. Yere I is, en yere I gwine stay.” 

“ You don’t seem to like Chicago so mighty 
much, Aunt Viny.” 

“ Lawd, Mahs Jo ! ain’t I done tole you 
dat?” 

She had, several times in the last few days; 
but Cousin Jo never tired hearing about it, and 


“ No Longer a Dream ” 3 1 1 

she never tired telling about it. She had 
recently made a long-planned journey to Chi- 
cago, to visit a son, and “ Yere I is, en yere I 
gwine stay,” was her reiterated assurance since 
her return. 

“ Well,” Cousin Jo mused, “ everybody says 
Chicago is a fine, big city, Aunt Viny, — one of 
the finest in the world, — and I don’t just see 
what you can have against it.” 

“Who, me? ” coming nearer, her eyes snap- 
ping. “ I ain’t got nothin’ agin Chicawger. 
Hit ’s de people.” 

“ What ’s the matter with the people? ” 
“Now listen at you, Mahs Jo ! You knows 
whut ails dem people des well ez me. Dey 
ain’t our kinder folks, da ’s whut ails um. I 
wan’t fotch up wid no sich ! ” 

“ So you would n’t like to live there ? ” 

“ I be boun’ I ’d come a heap nigher dyin’ 
dah den livin’ dah. My land ! I skeert mighty 
nigh to def ev’y time I set my foot outer do’s, 
whut wid de ships a-sailin’ spang thoo de 
streets, en de bridges a-swingin’ fus one way 
en den t’other, right out fum under you. En 
ef you don’t git knocked down en tromped on 
by de scrougin’ people, fus thing you know 
dem stree’ cyars gwiner run over you ’fo ’ you 


3 12 


The Inlander 


knows whut happened to you. Clang! whang! 
dey comes, dis side er you en dat side er you, 
a-chargin’ along, widout no hawses er nothin’ 
else to pull um. Hit ’s des scan’lous, da ’s whut ! 
Some folks says dey ’low some er dem cyars 
is worked by somepn up above, en some is 
worked by somepn under de groun’, en I says 
I be boun’ dey is, en somepn whut ’s got hawns 
en hoofs, en smells er brimstone, to boot I 
alius did ’low Ole Scratch made his stompin 
groun’ in dese yere big cities, anyhow. En 
den de ca’iges whut dem white folks keeps, 
Mahs Jo — some un um ain’t got but two 
wheels, wid de driver a-squattin’ peeked way 
up on de hine seat, caze dey too stingy to have 
a front seat, I reckon. Dey ain’t no use talkin’, 
Mahs Jo, folks whut tries to put on ez many 
airs ez dem folks does en den goes scrimpin’ 
’roun’ in ca’iges wid two wheels — you knows 
whut ails dem, Mahs Jo: dey ain’t our kinder 
white folks, en I don’t keer who hear me say 
so!” 

“ You reckon that ’s what ’s the trouble with 
’em, Aunt Viny? ” 

“ Co’se it is ! Whut de use er yo’ gwine on 
dat away, Mahs Jo Cabanis? Goodness’ sakes! 
it don’t tek no two wheels fer to show dat! 


“ No Longer a Dream ” 313 

You kin see dey ain’t our kinder white folks 
soon ’s you lays eyes on dey drivers — white 
drivers, mos’ all un um, Mahs Jo; en you 
knows dey ain’t no reel quality gwiner keep 
no po’ white trash ca’ige drivers, stiddier nig- 
gers — you knows dat des well ez me, Mahs 
Jo!” 

“Then I take it that you are not overly satis- 
fied with your trip to Chicago, Aunt Viny?” 

“ Oh, Ize satisfied ’nough. Ef I had n’t ’a’ 
gone to Chicawger I would n’t ’a’ stop, cornin’ 
back, to see Miss Madge, en ef I had n’t ’a’ 
stop to see her I would n’t ’a’ fotch her home 
wid me, en she’d ’a’ been mopin’ up in dat 
Kintucky dis blessed minute. Say, Mahs Jo, I 
don’t lak dis yere way Mr. Paul got traipsin’ 
’roun’ de country on business en leavin’ honey 
behine so lonesome she lak to cry her eyes out 
de minute she see me come thoo dat do’ er 
hern. Ef I ’d ’a’ knowed he ca’ied on dat 
kinder business when he come ’roun’ yere 
co’tin’, I’d ’a’ sot my foot down en ferbid de 
bon’s.” 

Aunt Viny, pursuing her way in search of 
the red-oak bark, had gone but a little distance 
beyond the gate when she met Barney Carruth- 
ers and Paul Rodman driving up in a buggy. 


The Inlander 


3H 

“ Bless de lamb ! ” she said, stopping in the 
middle of the road. “ Ef ’t ain’t Mr. Paul and 
Mr. Barney ! ” 

To Paul’s immediate inquiry she answered : 

“ Miss Madge, she gone to tek a walk, I 
reckon.” Then her body writhed with her 
spasmodic, musical laugh. “ Law, Mr. Paul, 
I been layin’ off to give you a good bastin’ 
down fer de way you been gallivantin’ ’roun 
widout Miss Madge, but I reckon you don’t 
need it. You sutny do look lak you ain’t 
stood it no better ’n her.” 

“Where is she? Which way did she go?” 
Paul demanded. 

“ I seed her gwine over yander, into de 
Valley.” 

Paul sprang from the buggy. 

“Will you drive on to the house, Bar- 
ney?” he said, and struck rapidly into the path 
to the creek. 

He crossed it, with swift, steady stride, into 
Division Valley. All his strength seemed to 
have returned suddenly. He plunged on, 
oblivious of the beauty of May in the Valley. 
He was deaf to the rush and ripple of the 
stream, the calls of the birds ; he was blind to 
the foliage’s maze of myriad greens, shot with 


“No Longer a Dream ” 


3*5 


the delicate whites and blues of the blossoms 
underfoot and the delicate whites and blues of 
the sky overhead; he was insensible to the 
evanescent aromas from bough and sod, rarer 
than the breath of rose leaves in old cabinets, 
more insidious than memories of wild honey. 
His senses were alive for the sight of one fig- 
ure, the sound of one voice. Beyond the 
creek, past the bluff where the wild roses were 
budding, he slashed on till the elm of the 
crow’s nest was in view. If Madge were in the 
Valley, and if she were here, where they had 
met and where their walks together had always 
ended thereafter, — there was a thunderous 
turbulence in his blood, a mighty ebb and 
flow at the thought of it ; and then there was 
a succession of sharp yelps, as a lithe form 
bounded through the bushes, and Pifif leaped 
jubilantly upon him. 

A few yards more, a turn of the path 
through the bushes, and Paul stopped short 
as he saw Madge, standing under the beech 
where he had lain in wait for the squirrels. 
Her attitude was alert, her intent face was 
toward him ; and as he came into view and 
halted ten paces away, she uttered a quick, 
faint cry and ran forward two or three steps, 


The Inlander 


316 

but instantly checked herself, her outstretched 
hands falling beside her. 

As Paul looked into the startled, questioning 
eyes fastened on him, as he beheld the face so 
pathetically pale and worn, and the slight fig- 
ure yet inclining toward him in its arrested 
impulse, he summoned all his powers of self- 
control, lest he forget himself in a whelming 
desire to rush up to her and take her into his 
arms, which no longer had a right to hold 
her. 

With a determined effort at calmness, he 
walked forward and paused a few feet from 
her. 

“ Will you — will you let me speak to you a 
moment? ” he said in a low voice. 

Her eyes had fallen as he stopped near her, 
but she raised them again searchingly. She 
came up to him and laid her hands upon his 
arm, and with her face lifted to his she almost 
sobbed, — 

“ Oh, Paul, you have been ill ! ” 

She bowed her head against him, he felt to 
hide her swift tears, and he bent over to kiss 
her hair, but remembered and drew back, 
standing erect again. He had not expected 
any such reception as this, and it only intensi- 


“ No Longer a Dream ” 317 

fied the more, if possible, his unworthiness in 
his own eyes. 

“I — it is very good of you to see me at 
all,” he finally said. 

She led him to the foot of the beech-tree. 

“ Come,” she urged him. “ You look so 
tired, and you must rest before we go back to 
the house.” 

She sat down on the great twisted root of 
the beech, and made room beside her for him ; 
but he remained standing, and looked down on 
her as he leaned against the tree. 

“ I did not come,” he said, after a little, “ to 
beg your forgiveness for the cowardly wrong I 
did you, although you would be justified in 
thinking I am base enough even for that. I 
wish only to confess to you my shame and 
humiliation, and to ask you — it is all I ask 
you — to believe me when I say that even you 
cannot hold me in the supreme contempt that 
I hold myself.” 

She made no reply, nor any movement 
except that her head drooped a little lower. 

“ I should like to tell you,” he went on, 
“ more of my past than you know — not with 
any idea of trying to palliate my conduct to 
you — I hope you will believe I recognize that 


The Inlander 


3 l8 

there can be no palliation of that — but in 
order that you may realize, if you can, for 
your own sake, how it was possible for a 
human being to be capable of so atrocious an 
insult to you, of all women.” 

“Wont you sit down?” she said gently, 
without looking up. 

He paid no attention to this, but told her, as 
briefly as he could, of his experience with Lucy 
Arnan and the effect it had left on him. “That 
is all I have to say,” he finished, “ except to 
thank you for allowing me to say it.” 

Her hand sought his, which she pressed 
against her cheek ; then she looked up at him 
with a face so full of blooming, tearful love 
that he trembled weakly against the support- 
ing tree. 

“ Oh, Paul, I am so sorry for all you have 
suffered ! But I can’t feel very hard toward 
that poor woman; for if she had taken you, 
what would have become of me?” 

She smiled up at him bravely, and he, the 
words throbbing in his throat, spoke with 
impetuous bewilderment, — 

“ Surely — it can’t be — that you are forgiv- 
ing me ! ” 

“ I ’m not thinking of such disagreeable 


“ No Longer a Dream ” 319 

things as forgiveness. I just know that I never 
was so happy, and I don’t care for anything 
else that ever has been.” 

She drew him down to the seat by her side, 
and as the rapturous light broke over his still 
puzzled face he stammered, — 

“ I don’t see how it is possible for a woman 
like you — ” 

Blushing and smiling as if she had never 
known a tear, she put her hand over his lips. 

“ We don’t know and we don’t care anything 
about women,” she said. “ We just know that 
we have each other, and that we don’t care for 
anything else.” 

He laughed with his old boyishness, and 
kissed her. But even then he did it more as 
if he were kissing a saint than his wife. 

They sat long at the foot of the beech-tree, 
and said fitfully the many things they had to 
say to each other. When at last they rose, 
Madge laughed, — 

“ Oh ! there is something else, Paul. You 
must write to dear old Mr. Joyce at once and 
tell him you cannot ratify his contract with 
me.” 

“ Poor Joyce ! But he has fared pretty well, 
Barney tells me ; and I suppose he would be 


320 The Inlander 

willing to play the same part again on the same 
conditions.” 

As they turned to leave, Paul paused and 
looked at the letters carved long ago in the 
smooth bark of the beech. 

“ Madge,” he said, “ when we come here 
again I must tell you the beautiful dream I 
had just before I cut my initials there and 
left the blank space for — yours.” 

“ Oh, you must ! ” she cried. “ We will 
come again to-morrow.” 

“ Only it is no longer a dream, dear. It 
is — ” he drew her to him and kissed her, this 
time not as a saint, but as Madge — “ it is, 
like all other things that once were my dreams, 
you.” 


Other Novels by Mr. Robertson 


A Noteworthy Piece of Fiction 

Red Blood & Blue 

i2mo. $1.50 

FOURTH EDITION 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 

Mr. Robertson has chosen an attractive title for an at- 
tractive book. ... It is a long and bitter struggle of the 
red blood and the blue, and to the victor belong the 
spoils. But Mr. Robertson has not depended upon the 
emotions for his story, for he has built a solid founda- 
tion of vivid characters, manly honor and womanly 
simplicity. — The Bookman. 

A critic learns to be shy of superlatives, but surely, 
so far as our record reaches at this writing, the first 
place must be accorded to Mr. Harrison Robertson’s 
“ Red Blood and Blue/'* which more than redeems the 
promise of that charming story of love and politics, 
“ If I were a Man,” which we commended so heartily 
last year. ... We have seldom read a story of such 
abounding health and vigor as this. ... We can only 
say that those who do not read the story will miss 
more pleasure than they realize. — The Churchman. 

The story of a manly young fellow who vindicated 
the right of an honest, upright young American to 
unite his vigorous manhood with the best aristocracy 
of the country. The story is well written, thoroughly 
wholesome and good from every point of view. — St. 
Louis Globe Democrat. 


Other Novels by Mr. Robertson 


If I IV ere a Man 

THE STORT OF A NEW SOUTHERNER 


i6mo. 75 cents. (In the Ivory Series) 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 


“If I were a Man” is a story of love and politics. 
It narrates incidents in the recent political history of 
Kentucky, which are so like the actual facts that a 
non-resident of that State can hardly convince him- 
self that he is not reading a real history. — Review 
of Reviews. 

The story is the main thing in “ If I were a Man.” 
It moves right along with the charm of rapid narrative. 

— Droch, in Life. 

As a study in practical politics, w r ritten with abun- 
dant dash, and revealing shrewd insight into conditions 
which prevail, not in Kentucky alone, the book is good 
to read. — The Nation. 

It is a good story from every point of view, carefully 
written, well balanced, and thoroughly wholesome. 
There is promise in it of strong, sane work in the future. 

— The Outlook. 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
I 53- I 57 Fifth Avenue, New York 



























































Apr-^ 1901 


MAR 20 1901 




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